


Dream of Autumn

by Heavy Henry (HeavyHenry)



Series: Heartbeat [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Library, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Asexual Character, Dancer Katsuki Yuuri, Domestic, Engagement, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Food Issues, Graduate School, Learning To Communicate, M/M, Matchmaker Yuri Plisetsky, Musician Victor Nikiforov, Mutual Pining, New Orleans, Nonbinary Character, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, don't get too excited, it might also be, jazz musicians, loving descriptions of food, maybe: depends on who you ask, not yuuri and viktor, phichit chulanont does not have time for your bullshit, repost, you may have already read this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:13:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 42,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21822718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeavyHenry/pseuds/Heavy%20Henry
Summary: In which Viktor is a jazz guitarist who spends his days at the information desk of the New Orleans public library and Yuuri is a graduate student.It's the return of the New Orleans librarian/grad student AU.  If you've ever wanted to see Victor awkwardly try to flirt while explaining a wifi policy, this is the fic for you.
Relationships: Christophe Giacometti & Victor Nikiforov, Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Phichit Chulanont & Katsuki Yuuri
Series: Heartbeat [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1198183
Comments: 51
Kudos: 106





	1. Songe d'Automne

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is awkward. This is actually the second time that i have reworked and reposted this fic. on revisiting it, there were some things that left me feeling a little uncomfortable, but I also liked it enough that i felt like it was worth coming back and doing it right. If you have read and commented before, thank you. Your kind words meant the world to me. This was my first fic in roughly 15 years, and i wouldn't have kept going if I hadn't gotten that encouragement. I've only finished re-working the first chapter: I don't exactly know how far from the original version I'll end up, so i won't try to advise you on whether or not it's worth revisiting: I trust you to make you own decisions.
> 
> There is a playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5pISUptxkSwfKSD76kQkdF

Victor Nikiforov was bored. He would be stuck at the Information Desk for another half hour, the slow trickle of patrons both barely enough to keep him awake but also too much to keep him from getting invested in another project. He tapped his pen on the edge of his keyboard as he pretended to listen to Yurio, who was leaning against the desk and complaining about something. Again. 

When had his days all started to look the same? 

Stability used to be something he’d craved. He’d given up other dreams for the allure of a regular schedule and health insurance, and what was he now? A glorified customer service clerk. Instead of pursuing his art, he’d spent the last several years training his instincts to detect the furtive shuffles that indicated someone having a little too much fun at the public computers. 

Dealing with public masturbation was not a skill that he had expected to need when he had applied for the job at the library. Victor had been forced to develop his own set of methodologies and best practices. He was proud to say that they were heavily influenced by schadenfreude and pettiness. 

“Eugene, darling. I can see you,” he drawled, from the corner of his mouth that wasn’t distorted by being propped on his fist. He smiled, perhaps a little cruelly, when Eugene’s shoulders jumped to his ears and he hastily closed a browser window with a mutter. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear that.” Eugene just grumbled. 

Victor smirked and sat upright, relishing the way his spine crackled at the stretch. 

“Oh, gross,” Yurio groused, making an exaggerated gagging sound and ignoring Eugene’s glares. “Just kick him out, Victor. You know you can do that, right?” 

“I know.” Victor replied simply. “I don’t think you really want me to start expelling every disruptive patron, do you?” He gave Yurio a look. “Eugene has never been followed in by truant officers or brought a poodle into the library, unlike some patrons I could name.” 

The Poodle Incident had happened five years ago and had ultimately proven a turning point in Victor’s life. It had been a rainy summer afternoon when Yurio found the pup, barely breathing, on the Elysian Fields neutral ground. She had been hit by a car, which was nowhere to be seen. Yurio had tucked her, rain and blood and all, into his leopard print sweatshirt and biked all the way to the library like that. Security guards and irate maintenance staff had trailed the sodden teenager as he ran to the door of the reference office and banged on it, yelling Victor’s name. Victor had been stuck on the call center phone, bored again (it seemed to be a common occurrence), when he’d heard the commotion and come out to snoop. Yurio had damply grabbed his arms and begged him for a ride to the vet. He would have done it for Yurio’s big green eyes anyway, but then the dog had weakly licked at Victor’s hand when he reached out to pet her, and he was a goner. He’d barely had the presence of mind to shout, “Sara! I’m going home sick!” before herding Yurio out to his Subaru wagon. 

Lots of vet bills and Lost Dog posters later, Victor had acquired a bit more debt and a very needy best friend. 

Today, Yurio just rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I think you still owe me big for that.” 

“It is true, Makkachin is my beloved large son.” 

“You still need me to walk her tomorrow, right?” Yurio asked, trying his best to sound like it was an imposition. 

“Yeah, I’m not gonna have time before the show.” He actually could get home and to the bar in plenty of time, but dog-sitting gave Yurio an excuse to hang out at Victor’s house, eating his leftovers and using his bubble bath. He would have been welcome any time, but Yurio’s pride was a prickly thing. 

Victor wasn’t completely sure what Yurio’s housing situation was. He knew that it involved too many roommates and too much drama. Yurio had lived with his grandfather after the death of his parents, and he adored the old man. Nikolai Plisetsky had suffered a major stroke two years ago. Unable to work, medical expenses promptly wiped out their savings, and they hadn’t been able to keep their apartment. Yurio had gone to live with a distant cousin, but that hadn’t worked out. Within a month, Yurio had moved out and made the leap from chronic truant to actual high school dropout. 

These days, Yurio spent his days drawing portraits of tourists in the Quarter and working on his GED from the computers in the public library (driving Victor crazy in the process). He visited his grandfather as often as he could, coaching Nikolai through therapy. Victor didn’t mind paying Yurio’s exhorbitant “dog-walking” rate, because he knew that every cent went toward the deposit on an apartment with room for Yurio and his grandfather. 

“Cool,” Yurio replied. “Hey, check these out!” 

He yanked his phone from the pocket of his hoodie and shoved a picture in Victor’s face. Once his eyes focused on the cracked screen, Victor perked up: tattoo designs. Yurio’s other dream was to get a job as a tattoo artist, and Victor had done everything he could to encourage it. He’d talked to a couple of friends and done a little research and even gotten in touch with the owners of some local studios. They had expressed polite interest, but they wanted to see something resembling a portfolio before they were willing to invest the time in training someone. 

Victor grabbed the phone. “Hey!” Yurio shouted, but Victor just shushed him (something librarians didn’t get to do nearly often enough, in his opinion), and started scrolling through the photos. 

“Yurio-sweetie! Amazing! These are…” He paused, spotting a young man who had just walked in, “lovely.” Victor wouldn’t acknowledge that the new patron was very attractive, because that wouldn’t be professional. He would, however, acknowledge that he really hoped he would ask a question. 

“What?” Yurio said, nonplussed, craning across the desk to look at the image on the screen. It was a flying eyeball, trailing flames. “Uh, Victor?” He followed Victor’s gaze and rolled his eyes extravagantly. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.” 

Victor swallowed and passed the phone back to Yurio wordlessly. “Um,” he cleared his throat, “Hi! How can I help you today?” 

The newcomer cautiously approached the desk, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I can wait my turn,” he said, not quite meeting Victor’s eyes. 

“Oh, no, is fine!” Victor said, “We were just wrapping up!” He plastered a professional smile on his face as Yurio’s glare threatened to set his lanyard on fire. 

“Okay, um, well, I was just wondering about, um, the wifi? A-and printing,” he added. Victor cast an apologetic smile at Yurio who was already stalking away, middle finger raised. His patron looked between the two of them with concern. Victor made a mental note to stock the fridge with something extra special by way of apology, and turned back to the man at the desk. He looked nervous, but Yurio tended to have that effect on people. 

“Oh, don’t worry; that’s normal,” Victor said chirped. His customer seemed dubious, his wide brown eyes worried behind a pair of charming blue glasses. He moistened his lips and Victor was deeply disturbed that he had noticed how chapped they were. He forced himself to respond with only normal attentiveness to the question, “So, wi-fi, right? Okay, here’s the network name…” he fumbled with the stack of pre-printed slips, almost knocking over his mug of pens before passing one across the desk. 

“No password, but there’s a terms and conditions thing that doesn’t always pop up immediately.” He waved his hands vaguely. “If not, just type our website into the address bar,” he grabbed another bookmark, “Here. type that in, and it will do the thing.” He gestured and smiled again. 

“Um, okay.” Mr. Charming Glasses looked at Victor then quickly down at the counter. Victor must have short-circuited for a second there, because the patron was prompting him. “Um, printing?” Was that a smile? Maybe? Was he teasing him? He was probably just laughing at Victor, but he looked less worried, which was a nice change. 

“Oh, right. Yeah.” Victor flew into action, grabbing forms and cards, flinging a pen across the desk. He heard snickering behind him. Sara was here to take over. Victor refused to dignify her with a response. He was going to get this guy a library card if it was the last thing he did. Even if it made him late for his lunch break. “So, I’m guessing you don’t have a library card, right?” He got a head shake in response. “Okay - fill in this form. Do you have a driver’s license?” 

“Um,” the patron paused, pen hovering over the form, “I just wanted to print a couple of pages?” 

“Right, right, but you need a library account to access wireless printer, so…” Victor paused. “Policy,” he shrugged, which was true. It was also true that he really, really wanted the guy to check something out, then to come back and return it, and maybe check something else out, and so on and on. He slid the application forward with an apologetic smile. 

The patron didn’t smile back. “Passport okay? For ID?” At Victor’s nod, he retrieved it from his backpack, then he just sort of set his jaw and started writing. Victor sighed internally and started entering the little bit of information he could glean from the passport and an upside-down readingof the application-in-progress. Katsuki Yuuri was 27 and had a Tulane email address. He was also a Capricorn from Japan who didn’t photograph well. Victor did not need that information for a library card, though. 

Sara stepped up behind him and nudged him with an elbow. “I can finish up here, if you want to get to lunch,” she offered, a twinkle in her eye. 

“Oh! I’m sorry!” Yuuri looked up, slight panic in his face, “I didn’t mean to keep you from your break.” He looked genuinely distressed at the thought. 

“Oh no, no problem!” Victor gestured placatingly. “I’ve got it Sara,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth. She gave him a mischievous look before sitting down at the next PC and opening a genealogy database. 

While he was sorely tempted to draw out the application process, Victor also didn’t want Yuuri to think that he was incompetent. It was the saddest conflict he had ever faced. He gave Yuuri the general instructions on using the wireless printing system, showed him how to add credit to his account and was disappointed when Yuuri turned down his offer to point him toward some recreational reading. Yuuri's fingers brushed his as he handed over the new card. Bells sounded, harps played, angels were singing and unicorns were...barfing? What? 

“Hey Victor!” Yurio was yelling from the direction of the public restrooms. “Some guy is puking all over the floor in here!” 

Katsuki Yuuri broke eye contact first, eyes widening as he looked toward the commotion. 

“Excuse me,” Victor sighed, dialing maintenance. “Sara can help if you need anything else,” he said, and reluctantly turned away.

~~

Katsuki Yuuri was feeling overwhelmed. He’d danced with the National Ballet of Japan since his late teens and, at 27, he was realizing just how much support he’d been taking for granted. Certainly, he was hardly sheltered. He had traveled the world performing, he was a respected professional and all-around functional adult. He had spent years trying to learn to manage his anxiety, his finances were budgeted to the yen, his diet was regimented and nourishing, his training routine rigorously maintained. 

He could navigate customs and order coffee in no less than twelve languages (that was the limit of his knowledge in all but three of them, but he was still proud of that). It had been years since he had felt the raw panic that swept through him as he attempted to navigate the mountain of paperwork generated by his enrollment in graduate school. 

His papers were strewn in complete disarray over the surface of the table. There were promissory notes, schedules, visa forms, lease agreements and a mountain of miscellaneous paperwork advertising various “fun” student activities, as if anything that could possibly require thinking could be construed as fun at this point. 

He had availed himself of the International Student Union’s offer to connect him with housing and a roommate, which had helped, but a couple of emails didn’t totally conquer the Completely Reasonable Fear of meeting a complete stranger with whom he would be expected to live in close proximity. 

Despite his catastrophizing, though, everything was going smoothly. His landlord and upstairs neighbor was a sweet older woman named Rosie, who was happy to rent to a couple of studious young people. He thought she said she was a retired librarian at Loyola, but in his self-absorbed panic, he might not have been the most attentive listener. The few times he’d been brave enough to ask her to repeat herself or had descended into the depths of his distraction, he’d been able to attribute it to the nonexistent language barrier and not poor manners. 

It was a nice apartment, with low ceilings, plaster walls, and a cozy atmosphere. The living room was small, but the kitchen was surprisingly spacious. Yuuri had claimed one bedroom, and had stored anything addressed to his roommate in the other bedroom. He had been reluctant to unpack too much in case they wanted to trade. According to the last email, the much-anticipated roommate would be arriving any minute, and it was ever so slightly possible that this fact was contributing to his current attack of anxiety. 

Yuuri looked up at the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. A car door and light feet on the stairwell above his front door was a relief and a terror all at once. He stopped trying to focus on the promissory note in front of him and strained for any snippets of conversation that he might be able to overhear. All he could catch was light laughter and chatter. The energetic steps descended the stairs again, followed by Rosie’s steadier tread. Yuuri stood when the sound paused outside of the door. He could hear the jingle of keys and then a quick laugh and the unmistakable sound of a shutter clicking. Yuuri fought the urge to flee as he heard the key slide into the lock. His second of indecision was too much, though, and Yuuri was left trying to look normal and relaxed as the door swung open, but instead he knew he looked like he’d been caught molesting livestock. 

“Yuuri?” Rosie spotted him. 

“Oh, hi, Ms. Coffman,” he replied, hoping his voice didn’t crack audibly. 

“Don’t worry, sweetie, I won’t make a habit of barging in. I just wanted to introduce Pi-” 

“Phichit Chulanont,” the young man behind her corrected smoothly, extending his hand, “howdy!” 

“I’m Yuuri,” he replied, shaking Phichit’s hand. Phichit was grinning broadly as he surveyed the small front room. 

“This is excellent! So comfy! Ooh! Big kitchen,” he exclaimed as he continued to explore. He bounced back up to Yuri, phone in hand. “Roommate selfie,” he explained, dragging Yuuri close and grinning into the camera. Yuuri flashed a reflexive peace sign, still stunned as Phichit whirled around the quiet apartment like a tiny Thai typhoon. Heh. Thai-phoon. Yuuri started to relax. If his brain was coming up with puns, he would probably survive this. 

“Okay, then, you boys let me know if you need anything,” Rosie said. 

Phichit's grin had gone a little thin, but he bounded back into the front room and wrapped the older woman up in a hug, “Thank you, Rosie!” He waved as she left, then turned around, and his smile faded as he noticed Yuuri's face, which was probably looked a bit stunned. He smiled more tentatively, “Don’t worry, I’m not always quite this bad. I’ve just been on the road since yesterday morning. I’ve had _so much_ Red Bull.” 

Yuuri nodded. He could relate to that. “Here, let me show you around.” To his immense relief, Phichit was thrilled with the room that Yuuri had left for him, sprawling immediately on the bed with a bounce. 

“So, you’re from Japan?” 

“Yeah, from a small town in Kyushu, but I’ve been in Tokyo for the last ten years.” Oh, right. He should probably ask a reciprocal question, “and you’re from Thailand?” 

“Yup! But I came over for college five years ago. I went to the University of Michigan, and then I lived in Detroit for a year. I finally got tired of being cold, so here I am!” 

“Do you have more stuff to bring in?” 

“Mmhm,” Phichit nodded, leading the way to his car. “So, what are you studying? I’m MFA in Tech God-hood.” He winked over his shoulder, “I know: it’s absolutely shocking that I'm a theater person. It took me a while to realize that I like being behind the stage more than being on it.” He grabbed a mountain of clothes in colors that Yuuri would never have dared to wear offstage. “What about you?” 

Yuuri found himself starting to smile, just a little, “Interdisciplinary Dance,” he said, hefting a cardboard box from the hatch of Phichit’s purple Geo Metro. “I was with the National Ballet of Japan for a while.” 

”Oh yeah? In the corps, or..?” 

”Mostly. Sometimes I get picked to do small ensemble things. I’m not really cut out for solo stuff.” 

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, what brings you here?” 

It took Yuuri a moment to formulate an answer. “Well, I’m not sure I want to keep dancing, honestly. Maybe not ballet, at any rate. I got hurt, and I guess I’m a little burned out. I need to find some kind of inspiration again.” 

“Whoa. You’re on, like a soul-quest or something. That’s deep.” They plopped the boxes down on Phichit’s bed. “Okay, Super Important Question Time.” 

Yuuri cringed. He’d already said more than he intended about himself. 

"First: pronouns?" 

Yuuri hadn’t given the topic much thought. "Uh, normal guy ones, please." 

Phichit nodded, "Cool, I use they/them. Are you gonna be weird about it?" 

"Oh, no, that's cool. I'm, uh, not straight, actually," Yuuri replied, "And I'll definitely be weird, it's unavoidable, but not about that." 

"That's cool, then." 

"So, was that the super important question?" 

“No, that was general housekeeping and good manners. The important thing is: I may have some, um, contraband in my luggage.” At Yuuri's panic stricken face, Phichit waved their arms in a gesture that was probably meant to be calming. “No, no, not like that! Well, um, actually, yeah, like that, but you can pretend like you don’t know about it and I promise never to smoke when you’re around,” they babbled. 

“No, no, that’s okay, I don’t know what I was picturing. You made it sound so serious.” Yuuri blushed furiously, feeling silly. 

“I mean, it is super serious, like, life or death style, though.” Phichit watched Yuuri seriously. “I was talking about pets.” 

“Oh,” Yuuri loved dogs, but he was pretty sure the lease didn’t allow them, and he wasn’t sure he could cope with a snake, or lizard or, well, anything with those dead reptilian eyes. 

Phichit reached into the breast pocket of their v-neck and extracted something small and furry. 

Yuuri gaped at them. “Has he been in there all this time?” 

“Yup! This one is Horst Buchholz,” Phichit chirped happily, stroking a black and white one between the ears. “So…can you keep a secret?” 

Yuuri nodded, incapable of speech. 

“Good!” Phichit said, “Because I have six more.”


	2. Hurricane Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, it turns out that the shy grad student can _dance._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with more of the DOA re-write. Thanks for checking it out. as always, comments give me life. I promise to (eventually, awkwardly) respond to all of them.

Yuuri was back at the library on Friday. He and Phichit had finally gotten wifi set up at the apartment, but hadn’t gotten around to buying a printer. Yuuri, for his part, didn’t think it was worth it. For now, the public library would do the trick. Phichit had assured him that there were plenty of computer labs all over campus, not to mention the whole library, which kept much more generous hours. On top of that, Phichit had said, ranting a little, there were branch libraries all over town, including not one, not two, but three within easy bicycle distance of their apartment. Yuuri wasn’t quite sure how to explain that he sort of liked going to the downtown branch. He knew where everything was, he knew how the printers worked, he knew that even if he asked a really stupid question he would definitely not be the strangest thing that the staff had encountered that day. He was also starting to recognize some of the staff there: the young dark-haired woman who always smiled, no matter how much trouble Yuuri had with the self-check machines, the bald man in the Louisiana Collection whose coffee mug seemed to have been surgically grafted into his hand, the severe woman in designer suits who would occasionally sweep imperiously through the main floor, leaving cowed silence in her wake, and Victor. 

Victor was at the Information Desk. He’d been on the phone when Yuuri came in, but had looked up from his work and smiled warmly as he passed. Victor smiled a lot. He was also tall and striking with long, graceful fingers and startling blue eyes beneath that improbable silver hair. He was as dapper today as he’d been before, but he had traded his customary blazer for an emerald sweater vest over a perfectly fitted button down. This was apparently Victor’s version of casual Friday. He was wearing dark wash jeans that complimented his long legs. Or, at least, Yuuri imagined they would. Victor was sitting down behind a desk. Yuuri couldn’t see his legs, so why was he imagining them? 

Yuuri set up his laptop at a free table. If it happened to be one from which he could easily see the desk, that was pure coincidence, nothing more. The Performing Arts Department was putting on a student mixer tonight and Phichit had insisted they put in an appearance. Yuuri wasn’t sure that he was a “mixer” type of person, but he had promised his sister that he would do something outside of his comfort zone at least once a week for his first few months in New Orleans. If that weren’t enough of a reason, Phichit had, probably correctly, pointed out that a certain amount of networking would be to Yuuri’s advantage, given the school’s emphasis on interdisciplinary work. 

It was, after all, a large part of why Yuuri had come here. The Newcomb College Institute Graduate School was small and intimate, and was known for encouraging collaboration and artistic exploration. It also didn’t hurt that the Dean of the dance department was an acquaintance of Yuuri’s childhood ballet teacher and that he’d been awarded a generous teaching assistantship. 

While the performance career of a professional dancer was potentially longer than that of, say, a competitive figure skater, Yuuri was becoming aware that he needed to give some serious thought to his future. At 27, he’d already been fighting burnout when stress fractures had forced him off stage for several months. 

He had expected the break to be pleasant, but instead had found himself anxious and adrift, falling quickly into bad habits without the grind of the regular performance season to keep his worst impulses at bay. He’d been having a particularly bad night, watching Bake Off and desperately trying to muffle the racket in his brain with some cheap scotch when he’d gotten an email from Minako-sensei, his childhood ballet teacher, about funding opportunities for international students. He started the application before he could sober up and think better of it. 

Nine months later, here he was, in New Orleans. His physical therapist had cleared him to dance again, as long as he took it easy. Yuuri had promised to rest and he had every intention of following through, at least, he did when he said it. Dr. Cialdi, the dean of the College of Dance had already approached him about choreographing a piece for the fall recital, and he knew that he would somehow get roped into the Nutcracker: wrangling children, at least, if not dancing, but even that would be restful by comparison. 

He shook himself from his musings and caught Victor’s eye. Had he been looking at Yuuri? Worse, had Yuuri been staring? He had a tendency to zone out like that, letting his eyes land on whatever they wished, and his stupid eyes had already decided that they liked Victor, very much. He darted his gaze back to his screen, feeling his cheeks warm, as he clicked “attending” on the Facebook invitation. He peeked up again after a few minutes. Victor was smiling now, chatting with that skinny blond kid who’d been at the desk the other day. Victor sure smiled a lot. It was weird. 

Yuuri sent his documents to the printer: booklists, schedules, the take out menu for a Vietnamese place he wanted to try, and packed up his stuff. At the print station, he scanned his card, glancing around the room. Victor had moved to the bank of public computers and was leaning over the shoulder of an elderly patron, pointing out something on the screen. She asked a worried sounding question and he replied seriously, giving her shoulder a supportive squeeze. She put her hand over his and patted it softly. Victor laughed a little at something she was saying, his face soft with kindness. 

“Hey asshole!” 

Yuuri dropped his phone and library card, his earbuds yanked unceremoniously out of his ears as his phone bounced on the carpet. He scrambled on the floor after his things, only to find a foot clad in a garish animal print sneaker resting atop his phone. He followed the foot up a skinny leg in torn black jeans to the irritated face of the blond kid. 

“You gonna print something, or you just gonna stand here and eye-fuck the librarian?” 

Wow. “Um, all yours, sorry,” he said, grabbing his documents. As he paused nearby to arrange his things, he noticed the kid watching him. When he looked over, those narrow green eyes snapped away while a pale hand passed him his phone. “Thanks,” he said, then on impulse added, “I’m Yuuri, by the way.” 

The kid’s glare raked over him skeptically, eyes widening briefly. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

“Um. Sorry?” 

The kid looked speculative for a second, “Tch,” he scoffed. He looked at the printer which was spitting out page after page of photographs of tigers, then over at the computers and then back at Yuuri's extended hand. “Fine,” he grumbled, shaking Yuuri's hand, “I’m Yuri, too, Yuri Plisetsky, but everybody calls me Yurio.” 

"Wow. Weird coincidence, huh?" 

"Whatever." Yurio grabbed his printouts, not seeming to care that he was crumpling them, and stalked back to a table by the windows.

  
~~  


Yuuri had taken off by the time Victor got back to the desk. He was disappointed about this for no good reason. He had been considering saying something, trying to start a conversation about something other than wifi, maybe a casual slip that he was playing a show later tonight, maybe a question about what had brought Yuuri to the city. He could offer to, what, point him toward some restaurants? He sighed, tapping his lips thoughtfully, probably an unsanitary habit in a public library. Of course, this was all terribly inappropriate, and besides, he had no reason to think that he was Yuuri’s type, as it were. Sure, he set off Victor’s gaydar, but sometimes Victor’s Wishful Thinking Doppler forecasted flirty with a chance of matrimony, and all he got was rain. Perhaps the meteorological metaphor wasn’t working as well as he’d hoped. 

Yurio stalked over to him at the desk. “Bitch stole my name,” he complained loudly, hooking a thumb at the front doors. Victor smiled internally. 

“So, you met Yuuri? Were you nice?” 

“Of course.” Yurio held up one hand, mimicking the boy-scout salute and looking angelic. “I caught him being a creeper, though. Just thought you should know as, like, a concerned citizen of the library.” His face was as serious as Victor had ever seen it, which was a little alarming. Victor would be so disappointed if his patron crush turned out to be a problem. His concern faded as Yurio’s tone went salacious. “Yeah, he was standing at the printer just, like, drooling, and looking at the computers. I think he’s got the hots for Mrs. Metoyer over there.” Victor started and looked at the nonagenarian who was bending close to the screen, probably still trying to download her sister’s death certificate. 

He glared at Yurio, “Have I ever told you that you’re kind of a brat?” 

Yurio laughed triumphantly. “Gotcha. But, seriously, he was watching you the whole time you were back there. And I was only mostly kidding about the drool.” He rolled his eyes. “It was gross as hell, but since I’m such an altruist, I wanted to let you know.” 

“You are truly an angel,” Victor replied, overly sweetly. “Whatever would I do without you?" 

"Feed you own dog, probably." 

Victor grimaced, "Yeah, thank you for that. The key’s in the usual spot, and there’s some leftover pasta stuff in the fridge. And ice cream.” Yurio pumped his fist in triumph. “Give Makkachin a whole can of wet food. She gets a treat tonight.” Yurio rolled his eyes. “That dog gets a treat every night. She looks like a potato.”

  
~~  


Thanks to Yurio, Victor had spare time before he was due to play in a hotel lounge somewhere on Royal, so he treated himself to a plate of jollof rice at Bennacchin on his way there. It was hot - it was August in New Orleans, of course it was hot - and he briefly debated the wisdom of stopping by his house for a shower, or better yet, the Country Club for a quick dip. Instead, he just stripped down to his undershirt, stashed his button-down and sweater-vest in his messenger bag, and figured he’d be sweaty by the end of his set no matter what. 

Tonight, he was doing his best Joe Pass impression, accompanying one of the many area vocalists on a tidy little set of jazz standards designed to provide perfectly inoffensive character for the tourists. He enjoyed working with Janine, and the set was a success, but he couldn’t deny that he was essentially sleepwalking through “Do You Know What it Means (to Miss New Orleans)” by the end of the night. It had been too long since music had been anything other than work: something he did for the money and because he honestly didn’t know what else to do with his time. 

Sometimes he wondered whether it was worth it. When he was honest with himself, he didn’t feel like he could call himself an artist anymore. He was simply a very competent musical technician. He already had a job, one that provided benefits and normal work hours. Maybe he should take Lilia’s offer seriously. He could let the library pay for his degree, go full-time, make some more money, maybe start applying for administrative positions. Did he need to continue to play if he wasn’t passionate about it? 

He had been, once. When he’d first come to New Orleans in his early 20s, he had been afire with the novelty of his new life. He’d put together a nice little Euro-jazz combo, and they’d done well, a combination of standards and Victor’s original compositions. They’d even put out an album, done a little touring around the Gulf Coast, played a bunch of festivals. He’d been in love, with the city, with his music, with a series of inattentive men, and he’d poured all of that love into his work, only to wake up one day and find that he had somehow poured himself empty. 

Victor sent Janine off with a hug and a promise to download her new album. He had tomorrow morning off and knew that Makkachin was in good, if grouchy, hands, so he decided that he deserved a reward: something frivolous, a little tacky, a little irresponsible. He slung his guitar case over his shoulder and headed off, enjoying the night humidity on his bare shoulders, and inhaling that particular French Quarter funkiness that was not a pleasant smell, composed, as it was, of stale beer, shrimp boil, and the various bodily excretions that accompany the catastrophically drunk, but was still somehow the smell of home. Though he had indulged plenty when he was new in town, the debauchery of Bourbon Street wasn’t really his scene anymore. Even so, it was fun to dip a toe in every now and then. He found himself heading for the unmistakable rainbow flags of The Oz. 

The doorman was a glorious specimen of beefcake, and Victor felt a little thrill of pleasure as he paid the cover out of his share of tips. He headed straight to the bar and was pleased to see the bleached tips that meant that Chris was bartending tonight. Victor moved to a clear spot at the bar and waited for a lull in the shouted order. Chris smiled widely when he recognized Victor, and graciously agreed to stash his guitar behind the bar. “I see we’ve earned tickets to the gun show, Nikiforov!” he shouted over the bass, hugging Victor and playfully leaning across the bar to squeeze his bicep. “To what do we owe this very pale pleasure?” 

“To a heat index of 110, of course.” 

“I’m amazed that your tundra assets have not melted clean away. The usual?” 

Victor nodded. Christophe was a habitual flirt even when he wasn’t working for tips. When Victor had first arrived in the city he and Chris had enjoyed a brief fling, but their dalliance had come to an amicable end fairly quickly, leaving them fast friends. Chris poured him a generous tumbler of ice cold vodka and declined payment with a wink. Victor tipped more than the drink was worth and leaned over to hear Chris talk. 

“Anything exciting happening tonight?” Victor had to yell to be heard over a techno remix of Doja Cat’s “Moo.” 

“Just the usual madness,” Chris shouted back. “You missed the Queens. Bachelorette party just rolled down the street, I’m sure I can find you a leftover penis straw, if you’d like.” Victor rolled his eyes as Chris smirked. “Oh, there’s also _that_.” Chris inclined his chin meaningfully toward the dance floor. Before Victor could ask what was happening, a couple of beardy men in guayaberas and straw hats motioned to Chris. “Excuse me, darlin’,” he dismissed Victor with a wave and hurried to the other end of the bar. 

Victor sipped his drink and wandered off, aiming vaguely for the dance floor. Sure enough, the usual mass of dancers had formed into a cheering ring around an open space. He edged closer to see what held their attention, only to quickly step back to avoid a flying foot. _That_ turned out to be a dance off of some sort. One wore the black briefs of the Oz’s regular go-go boys, but accessorized with rainbow suspenders. Victor recognized the auburn hair and silly little beard by sight, though he didn’t know the guy well - Emil or something like that. Victor suspected that it was actually something less exotic, a Bradley or a Jacob, maybe. What’s-his-name was certainly giving it everything he had, sweat gleaming on his bare shoulders as he kipped to his feet and moonwalked to the side of the dance floor. His challenger, meanwhile, looked like he’d been interrupted in the middle of a very corporate striptease. He had dispensed with his pants at some point and was wearing an improbable ensemble of red boxer-briefs and socks with a white oxford shirt and an almost offensively pedestrian baby-blue tie. 

He was balanced on one hand, legs extended to the ceiling, perfect musculature cast into stark relief by the colored lights of the club. He held that improbable position for a long frozen moment, then he began to spin, legs flared toward the ceiling, spinning from one hand to the other before rolling across his back to balance in some other gravity-defying pose. Victor was mesmerized. The dancer was beautiful, uninhibited, graceful, erotic, and Victor’s mind ran out of hyperbolic descriptors far too quickly to do justice to the performance. Emil (or whatever) gave up, laughing, and moved to join the watching crowd. 

“If I’m not careful, this guy’ll put me out of a job,” he commented, coming to stand next to Victor, who just nodded, mouth dry. The dancer didn’t even seem to have noticed that his competition had tapped out. He was back on his feet, whirling in a balletic tornado, concentration written all over his face, which was suddenly familiar, even without his endearing eyewear. 

Oh. Oh god. It was Katsuki Yuuri, his library crush. This was a surprising turn of events, to put it mildly. Yuuri was spinning, a series of beautifully controlled pirouettes without a pause for breath or equilibrium. “I think he’s had some practice,” he commented hoarsely to Emil, who just laughed. 

“I just pray he doesn’t notice the pole. I don’t know if my ego can take it.” Victor could only nod sympathetically, but it was a lie. He very much hoped Yuuri noticed the pole. What was a good prayer for that? What time was mass at Our Lady of Extreme Dehydration? 

At that point, Yuuri noticed Victor and stumbled slightly. His mask of concentration broke into a sunny smile and he shouted something in Japanese, bounding over to Victor and grabbing his hand, dragging him onto the floor to much laughter. The circle started to break up and return to the general dancing and grinding the Oz was known for. Emil elbowed him encouragingly and wandered off. The DJ had switched gears to electro-swing, and Victor followed Yuuri to the dance floor. Yuuri gave him a challenging look over his shoulder, hips moving to the rhythm. He raised his hands over his head to clap in time, and Victor found himself drawn to him like a staticky piece of lint. He reached his right hand out, spinning Yuuri around, his left hand seeking Yuuri's. Victor pulled him, sweaty and bare chested, against himself and took a minute to settle into the beat, enjoying the slight height difference that left Yuuri gazing up at him before Victor rock-stepped back in classic Lindy-hop style. Yuuri took a second to look startled, then pleased, and they were off. Victor was only a little rusty, but it wasn’t long before his days as president of the University swing dance club came back to him. Yuuri was an ideal dance partner, responding instantly to the music and to Victor’s cues. He followed Victor’s lead effortlessly, like they’d been dancing together for years. As the song ended, Yuuri fell into his arms, breathless. Victor laughed and guided them over to a table. 

“That was great,” Yuuri sighed, slumping into a chair. Now that they were still, Victor could see the underlying waxiness of his skin and the glassiness in Yuuri's wide brown eyes. The difference between his shy library patron and this Salome suddenly made much more sense. 

“Here, let me get us some water,” Victor offered, _and your pants._ He took a circuitous route around the dance floor looking for any discarded items of clothing. He made it back to the bar where Chris waved him over. 

“Looking for these?” he winked, holding up a pair of black chinos by the belt. Victor accepted the pants, grateful to notice the weight of a wallet and phone in the pockets. “So, you know him?” Chris looked positively gleeful. 

Victor shrugged, “He’s been in the library a few times.” 

Chris gave him a _look_ , “If you look at all your patrons like that, buddy, then that scary boss of yours _really_ needs to send you to some training.” Victor felt the bridge of his nose going hot. Chris handed over a couple of water bottles. “You know me, Vitya. I hate to be the responsible adult, and I don’t want to put you on the spot, but between you and me, I think it’s time for him to call it a night.” Victor glanced over at Yuuri who seemed to be doing his best to melt into the table, as Chris went on, “and I’d feel better if I knew someone was looking out for him. I don’t know how he’s upright, never mind dancing.” 

Victor groaned. “Chris, I don’t think…” 

Chris rolled his eyes, “Vitya, I’m not asking you to escort him home. I know your Russian ass knows how to call Lyft. I’m just suggesting that you should _suggest_ that he call the rideshare of his choice and then make sure that he gets in it.” 

That was, actually, not unreasonable. Victor nodded and headed back to the table. 

Yuuri had his head down on the sticky table, arms hanging limply at his sides. He looked up when Victor approached. “Hey, my librarian is back,” he mumbled, then followed it with something indecipherable, possibly in Japanese, but it was slurred enough that Victor couldn’t be sure. 

“Here,” Victor handed him a water bottle. Yuuri looked at it suspiciously then chugged half of it at once. When he set it back down with a gasp, Victor handed him the pants. “Come on, time to go home.” Yuuri took the pants but just held them for a minute. 

“Home?” he asked blearily. 

“Yeah,” Victor said, hands in pockets, even though he really wanted to smooth the black bangs off of Yuuri's forehead. 

“Home is really far away. Can we go to your house instead?” 

“That’s not a good idea, Yuuri. I’ll get a Lyft for you. What’s your address?” Victor asked, pulling out his phone. Uptown somewhere, he dimly remember from Yuuri's library card. 

Yuuri mumbled something in Japanese, looking mulish. 

Victor tried again. “Yuuri, where do you live?” 

“Oh god. Um, I don’t feel very good,” Yuuri complained, dropping his head back to the table. The evening seemed to have caught up to him all at once. Victor sighed and yanked back the pants that were hanging uselessly in Yuuri's hands. He extracted a wallet, with more cash than was safe, but no driver’s license, just a passport. He shoved it back into the pocket and went looking for a cell phone. The lock screen was Baryshnikov and Hines in White Nights. Victor smiled a little and shoved the phone into Yuuri's hands. 

“Here. Is there anyone you can call?” 

Yuuri shook his head. “No. I just.... Oh god, I think I’m gonna…” Victor grabbed his arm and bodily hauled him to the nearest trash can where he left him puking noisily. Chris gave Victor a pointed get-him-out-of-here look as he passed Victor’s guitar across the bar. Victor groaned and pulled up the Lyft app on his own phone. 

He wrestled the uncooperative Yuuri back into his pants, slung his guitar case over one shoulder and Yuuri's arm over the other, and gave Chris a sarcastic salute on his way out. He’d requested the Lyft to meet them on the quiet end of Bourbon Street, so they had to walk a couple of blocks. Yuuri's arm was a warm weight on Victor’s shoulders as he stumbled along beside him. He would say something occasionally in Japanese and then pause, clearly expecting a response. Victor replied in Russian. Yuuri found this hilarious and it became a game as they walked. They carried on a very pleasant imaginary conversation, at least from Victor’s perspective. It was a shame that Yuuri would not remember much of the night, because parts of it had been very nice. 

The Lyft picked them up outside Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, and Victor bundled Yuuri into the backseat, begging again for his address, but all he got in return was a mumble. Fine, then. He gave his address to the driver, who passed Victor a bleachy smelling plastic garbage can with a meaningful look and drove off toward St. Claude. He was clearly a veteran of Bourbon Street pickups. 

Fortunately, both for Victor’s Lyft rating and the driver’s upholstery, Yuuri promptly fell asleep against the window. This left Victor with the whole ride home to wonder exactly how he’d gotten himself into this mess. Yuuri roused himself enough to heave himself out of the car with a grumble and follow Victor to the door. He could hear Makkachin greet them with a bark as he fumbled with the lock, followed by a growly “Shut up, dog!” Predictably, Yurio was sprawled on the couch rubbing his eyes, Sarah Connor threatening Miles Dyson on the TV. 

“Wakey, wakey,” Victor shuffled in through the door, shoving Makkachin aside with one leg as Yuuri shuffled in past him. The poodle was, of course, thrilled to have a new and interesting-smelling stranger around and was dancing around Yuuri barking and jumping and hindering any sort of forward progress. 

“I wasn’t asleep,” Yurio protested, stifling a yawn. He hastily moved his feet out of the way as Yuuri flopped onto the other end of the couch. Makka, never one to waste a lap, immediately crawled atop him. 

Victor’s house had originally been a small store that had been converted into a house, then remodelled into an event space after Katrina. Victor had spent the last three years de-converting back into a home. The front room had been a reception hall. For Victor, who loved to entertain, it was the perfect gathering space. He’d added a large open plan kitchen opposite the door, in what had originally been a bar area. Behind that was the hall that led to the bedroom and bathrooms. 

Yurio was sitting up by now, gaping at him, turning comically from Victor to Yuuri and back. 

“Jesus Christ, Victor, when I said he liked you, I didn’t mean you should drug him and drag him home,” he finally snarked once he had collected himself. 

“Yeah, well, this wasn’t my first choice.” Victor replied, walking to the kitchen and mixing up a couple of glasses of gatorade. 

“So, why the fuck is he here?” Yurio asked pointedly, "and why do you both smell like puke?" 

“After my set, I went over to the Oz.” 

“Classy,” commented Yurio, but Victor ignored him, chugging one of the glasses and downing a preventative ibuprofen.. 

“Christophe says he loves you, too. Anyway, ran into Yuuri, he had too many, and I guess somehow I’m taking care of him?” 

“So you brought him home? I feel like you had a lot of other options.” 

“He wouldn’t tell me where he lives!” 

“I wouldn’t tell a stranger in a bar where I lived, either!” Yurio rolled his eyes, presumably at Victor’s idiocy. “Whatever. I’m not giving up this sweet-ass couch, though. He,” he kicked at Yuuri’s thigh, “has to sleep somewhere else.” 

“Yeah, I know. I’ll stick him in the bed.” 

“That’s creepy, dude.” 

“Not with me! I’ll sleep out here on the air mattress.” 

“Whatever. You better not snore,” Yurio threatened. 

“Come on, help me get him in bed.” 

“Tch. no fuckin’ way,” Yurio scoffed. “I’m _so_ not going to be implicated in any of this when he wakes up and freaks the fuck out.” With that, he burritoed himself into his afghan and did a commendable job of pretending to sleep. 

“This is nice,” Yuuri murmured as Victor guided him down the hall. “Nice place, I mean.” 

“Thanks. I still think it would be better if you went home.” 

“Don’t feel like it. Doesn’t feel like home.” 

“I’m sure it will soon.” 

“Don’t wanna talk about it. Wanna sleep.” 

Victor resigned himself to his fate.


	3. Do I Move You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief update in time for the holidays. 
> 
> The aftermath of Yuuri's big night out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting from my phones, so imma keep this short. Happy midwinter holiday, thank you for reading! See end for content notes. Nothing too scary this chapter.

The buzz of a phone on a hard surface jolted Yuuri awake. His mouth tasted like literal death and his head pounded in a way that made him wish that he was literally dead. Other than that, he was very comfy. He didn’t remember his cheap mattress and thin green blanket being quite so cozy. He fumbled for the phone, knocking his glasses to the ground in the process and squinted resentfully at the screen.

  
  
Are you dead?  
  
You’re dead, aren’t you?  
  
Am I going to have to call your family?  
  
if you’re dead, can I have your green blanket? Charles Bronson really likes it. Actually, he might have already, er, claimed it.  
  
I’m not dead.   
  


Yuuri tapped out his message laboriously, then closed his eyes with a groan. The phone buzzed again, almost immediately.

  
  
So... where are you?  
  


That was exactly not the question that Yuuri wanted to answer at that second.

  
  
I’ll have to get back to you on that.  
  


He collapsed back onto the pillow and ignored the continued buzzing of the phone. The light was different here, a large bright window through which the succulent green sun streamed through gauzy curtains. The ceiling was different, too, a light blue that extended down to picture molding as opposed to the slightly dingy coved plaster of his apartment. Yuuri hated it. The brightness made his head ache, but it couldn’t distract him from the mounting panic.

Pieces of the night before floated about like broken spars in what must have been a sea of overpriced shots. He and Phichit had gone to the grad student mixer, which had been fine, maybe even good. He’d made some contacts, mostly because Phichit already knew everyone through the miracle of Instagram. Dean Cialdi was like a romance novel cover come to life, and he’d happily taken Yuuri under his wing and introduced him to the rest of the dance department. Yuuri and Phichit had planned to go to the Quarter afterwards.

What had happened next? That’s right: Phichit had begged off with a migraine and Yuuri had accepted a ride from a fiber artist and a ceramicist. He couldn’t remember their names. Somehow they’d settled on the Oz, “New Orleans’s #1 Gay Dance Club.” He had enjoyed a drag show, had tried to flirt with the blond bartender, had a few drinks, then a few more. At some point, his new friends had gone home. Yuuri had clearly decided that he was in for the long haul.

There was dancing, a lot of dancing. He could remember breakdancing pretty clearly, a dance battle. He hoped he had won. He also got occasional flashes of Lindy Hop, which seemed like a weird thing to do at a gay bar. After that, nothing.

Oh god, had he gone home with someone? That was a stupid question. Clearly, he had gone to a home that was not his own. He took a quick physical inventory: he was still wearing his boxer briefs, socks, and shirt, which was somewhat comforting. He was slightly sore but it was the kind of soreness that you got from dancing: the vertical kind, though, so that was okay. 

He sat up and waited for his head to stop spinning. Some cautious fumbling on nightstand failed to locate his glasses. There was a full glass of something bright orange, which smelled like a sports drink of some variety, and a couple of ibuprofen. Someone had also thoughtfully left a trash can beside the bed, into which he had apparently knocked his glasses. He gratefully chugged the entire contents of the glass and swallowed the pills before gingerly standing up. His pants were neatly folded on a wooden trunk at the foot of the bed next to his shoes and a folded towel. Most importantly, he was alone.

It was starting to look less like Yuuri had been preyed upon and more like he’d been a terrible inconvenience to someone. Maybe the fiber artist hadn’t gone home after all. An entirely different sort of panic was starting to rise beneath his ribs. No matter how awful he was feeling, he couldn’t hide in this bedroom forever. The longer he waited, the worse it would be. There were two doors in the bedroom. Door number one led to a pleasant bathroom. Yuuri relieved himself and splashed water on his face in an attempt to feel more human. He didn’t brave more than a quick glance in the mirror as he rinsed his mouth with some Listerine he found. He put on his pants and restored his possessions to the pockets. His tie was nowhere to be seen.

As he approached the door, he could hear faint music and a murmur of conversation. There was a smell of strong coffee and something cooking. He squared his shoulders, shoved his remaining nausea as far down as he could, and opened the door. Yuuri wasn’t sure what he expected to see, but it definitely wasn’t Yurio, the punk kid from the library, lounging on a worn leather couch and talking to a brown standard poodle.

“You look like a Mormon,” was the first thing Yurio said, before returning his attention to the dog, “Doesn’t he, Makka, yes he does, Yuuri looks like a hungover Mormon and you’re a good dog, yes you are.” 

The poodle was off the couch in a flash, big enough that the combination of Yuuri’s queasiness and her enthusiastic greeting left Yuuri on his ass on the reclaimed cypress floorboards.

“Um,” Yuuri replied, eloquent as ever.

“Oh, you’re up!” Yuuri winced as he recognized the voice: the pleasant, cheerful, Russian-accented voice. If a sinkhole could have opened beneath him at that moment, that would have been absolutely dandy. He was afraid to look, but he forced himself to face Victor, the librarian. Victor, from the library, was standing, presumably in his own kitchen, barefoot, wearing plaid pants and an undershirt, and making breakfast. Yuuri almost ran back to the bedroom. “How are you feeling?”

“Um, I’ve been better.” Yuuri answered. Yurio snickered. “How did I…” he trailed off. 

Victor had just taken a sip of coffee, and looked thoughtful. As he swallowed and set down his mug, Yuuri was mesmerized by the grace of the simple gesture in a way that even a hangover couldn’t distract from. Victor was lanky, with wide toned shoulders that said he enjoyed a good trip to the gym and a little softness at the waist that, combined with the smell in the kitchen, indicated an abiding love of carbs. “You mean you don’t remember?” He stopped himself and shook his head. “Of course you don’t.”

“I mean, I remember going to the Oz, and dancing, but after that…”

Yurio snorted but looked innocently at his sketchbook when Victor glanced in his direction.

“Well, you initiated quite the dance-battle,” they both ignored the choking sound from the couch, “But you, um, overindulged. I called a ride for you, but you wouldn’t tell me where you lived, so…” he gestured at the bedroom.

Yuuri leaned forward. He had to ask, but he didn’t really want Yurio listening in. “Did we,” he whispered desperately, “you know?”

Victor waved his hands frantically, looking frightened, “Oh, no, no, no!” He was shaking his head emphatically, “I slept over there!” He pointed to an air mattress in the corner.

“And he snored all night,” Yurio groused, padding into the kitchen and extending his mug demandingly at Victor who filled it from the white enamel coffee pot.

“So, um, Yurio, right? Do you live here?” Yuuri asked.

“Tch,” Yurio scoffed. “Yeah right. I just dogsit when he goes out cruising.” He grinned wolfishly before returning to the couch and the dog. “Your owner’s a tramp, did you know that Makkachin? Yes he is!” The commentary was delivery in standard doggy baby talk, but Yuuri could see Yurio watching Victor for a reaction.

Victor was looking innocently out the window and pretending he hadn’t heard anything. “Coffee?” he offered.

“I should...I should go,” Yuuri said, shaking himself. The whole situation was just too weird. Did he imagine that Victor looked disappointed? In fairness, if Victor had been hoping for a fun night out, babysitting a drunk idiot probably wasn’t high on anyone’s list of desirable activities. “Um, where am I? For the ride, I mean.”

Victor rattled off an address and Yuuri busily typed it into the app. He wondered if he could manage not to make eye contact with anyone until his ride got there. Victor clearly had other plans. He handed Yuuri a travel mug full of coffee and something hot wrapped in a paper towel. Startled, Yuuri looked up and met Victor’s gaze. His bright blue eyes were soft and his lips bore the gentlest smile Yuuri had ever seen on another man, including Mr. Rogers, and he found himself leaning toward Victor. 

Victor reached up, like he was thinking of touching Yuuri’s face, but he just barely caught himself. Yuuri could smell the peppers that Victor had been chopping and the coffee on his breath. It shouldn’t have been sexy; nothing about this situation should have been sexy, but Yuuri couldn't bring himself to care. “You’re a stunning dancer, Yuuri. I’m glad I ran into you last night.”

They were interrupted by an elaborate gagging sound from the couch.

~~

The napkin turned out to contain a cornmeal biscuit, studded with jalapenos and fresh corn. It was the sort of thing that Yuuri had not been able to eat when he was with the ballet. He couldn’t quite suppress the little reflexive stab of guilt as he crammed it into his mouth while he climbed into the back seat of the Corolla that had come to retrieve him. He wadded up the napkin and noticed something stiff tucked inside: a business card. He tucked it into the pocket of his shirt and slurped cautiously at his coffee. It was a chicory blend, so strong it was almost syrupy. Yuuri was almost starting to feel human again, which was unfortunate. Yuuri had hoped to put off thinking as long as possible.

As he stared out the window, he made himself a solemn promise: this would be the last time. It had to be. He couldn’t keep doing this to himself. The trouble was, he said this to himself every time. While sometimes he’d go months without overdoing it, eventually Yuuri would find himself back in this position, feeling like death warmed over, unsure of what or who he might have done, with a mouth full of the taste of shame and failure. 

He had excellent willpower. His entire career was a testament to his discipline, and yet: since his injury, Yuuri had found that his drinking had taken on an edge of desperation that frightened him. At first, alcohol had been a useful tool, a helpful social lubricant, filing the sharp edges off his anxiety and helping Yuuri survive the fundraisers and parties that he couldn’t avoid. The physical demands of his career had helped to keep his bad habits constrained. Since his injury, he found it harder and harder to find a reason to stop, and anxiety preceding social events had been replaced by anxiety after the fact. 

The neighborhood outside the Corolla’s windows was looking more and more familiar and Yuuri still had no idea how he would explain himself to Phichit.

Any hopes he had of postponing that conversation were dashed when he opened the door to a double armful of agitated roommate.

“Um, hi,” Yuuri said.

Phichit muttered something into Yuuri’s shoulder.

“I can’t hear you, Phichit.” Yuuri wasn’t usually a hugger, but this seemed like a special circumstance.

“I’m just really glad I don’t have to figure out how to file a missing person report.” They patted Yuuri’s arms and took a step back, giving Yuuri a sharp look. “You look and smell like hell. We should talk after you take a shower.” They headed for the kitchen with a wave. “Oh, I’m about to start a load of cold water. Put anything you want washed in the hamper in the hall.”

Clearly dismissed, Yuuri wandered toward to his bedroom. His bed was tempting, until he caught a whiff of himself and understood what everyone had been talking about. The smell of sugary drinks and sweat had mingled with the sour tang of vomit into an offensive cocktail. He tried not to think too much about it as he dumped the whole outfit unceremoniously into the hamper on his way to the bathroom.

Yuuri stood under the hot water of the shower for a long time, his thoughts straying back to the broken images of the night before, trying to piece them back together. He found his thoughts straying back to Victor, to the warmth of his eyes. He touched his lips, his hips, wondering if the heat of a phantom touch was memory or invention.

By the time the hot water ran out, he almost felt like he could face Phichit. He grabbed the thermal mug from his bedside table on his way. The warmth of the coffee seeped into his hands, comforting and grounding.

“I made an omelette,” Phichit announced from the corner of the couch that was already incontestably theirs. “You want anything?”

“No thanks, I ate.” Phichit quirked an eyebrow, but didn’t press for details as Yuuri claimed his spot. It was funny how quickly they’d both settled into the space.

“So, sorry about bailing on you last night,” Phichit began, dousing their omelette with hot sauce.

“No problem.” Yuuri sipped his coffee. “Are you feeling better?” Maybe he could deflect the conversation away from himself.

“Mostly.” Phichit waved it away with their fork. “Still a little aura, I probably shouldn’t drive.”

“Oh, good.”

“What about you? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, of course. I mean, sure.” 

Phichit sighed, “Look, Yuuri. I’m just your roommate. I’m not gonna be judgy about your personal decisions or, like, demand that you check in with me. It's just that we're new here, and I didn't know whether everything was okay or not.

“Nah, I didn’t think you would.” Yuuri fidgetted, clicking the lid back and forth on his mug. “I just - last night was weird.”

“I gathered. I don’t need to know specifics. Just, are you okay? Do you want to talk about anything that happened?”

“I went to the Quarter with, um, what were their names?”

“Charlotte and Josh. I was there for that part.”

“Right. So, I guess I kinda went home with someone?” He didn’t like the way his voice rose at the end, like it was a question. It was just, it wasn’t like that, not this time, and for some reason, he wanted Phichit to know that. Not that it hadn’t been _like that_ before, and not that Yuuri regretted the times he had gone home with someone _like that_. Those times, though, he hadn’t been quite so catastrophically drunk, and it mattered to him that Phichit knew that Yuuri knew the difference. “We didn’t, it wasn’t -” Yuuri had to take a deep breath to collect himself, annoyed to find frustrated tears blurring his sight. “He was taking care of me.”

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. No judgment, remember?”

“Yeah, okay. I ran into someone I knew. I was pretty out of it, but I think he tried to get me a ride. I don’t know. Nothing happened. He slept on an air mattress in the other room. He let me sleep at his place and then he made me breakfast.”

“And he wasn’t creepy and didn’t seem to expect anything?”

“I mean, he might want his mug back.”

Phichit smiled, then. “It does look like a good mug.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some light slut-shaming from yurio. Small amount of body/food talk. A monster hangover and a little reflection on drinking habits.


	4. Traces of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adventures in research and brunch with Christophe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the re-write continues. Now with more Giacommetti.

Victor Googled. He felt a little weird about it, at first, but he told himself that he wouldn’t seek out anything that wasn’t clearly intended for public viewing. He wouldn’t dig through ancient Facebook photos or scour the Wayback machine or buy contact info from one of those sketchy ads that always popped up when you Googled somebody. He wouldn’t even use the library’s Reference USA subscription. 

That was until he couldn’t find anything. 

Yuuri’s social media presence wasn’t just disappointing; it was nonexistent. No private Facebook page, no bare bones LinkedIn, nothing. This simply wouldn’t do. Not only was it disappointing, it was a professional affront to Viktor as a librarian.

So he dug deeper. Three hours later he was left with a headshot that appeared to be at least six years old and a profile on StageClick that informed him that Yuuri had no vocal range and training with the National Ballet of Japan. There was a video, though, a link to a video on Youtube. 

Again, it was old, a little grainy, a little unsteady. The room was unmistakably a ballet studio, the walls mirrored behind the barre. In the reflection he could see a figure in grey sweatpants bent over a bench and fiddling with a shoe. Another passed in front of the camera, blocking the view for a moment. There were a few seconds of murmuring and shadows before Viktor could see the studio again.

Yuuri walked to the center of the room. He was younger, hair shorter, his face a little rounder, his body a little softer. He stood in the center of the room, adjusting a strap, retying his drawstring. A woman, older but clearly also a dancer walked over to talk to him, explaining something with a lot of hand gestures. While she spoke, Yuuri kept moving, flexing his ankles, shaking out his thighs, scrubbing his palms against his thighs, adjusting his undergarments in the unselfconscious way of dancers and professional athletes. It suddenly occurred to Viktor that he was nervous. Eventually the woman finished and patted him on the shoulder. Yuuri nodded and sent a tense smile at the person behind the camera.

While the instructor walked over to an old stereo-system, Yuuri took a visible breath and a place at the corner of the room.

The music started and Yuuri’s demeanor changed, like a switch had been flipped. He pulled himself up straight and flashed a rakish grin at his small audience as he _strutted_ to the center of the floor. 

Viktor didn’t know the piece and couldn’t have said anything certain about it beyond that it was in waltz time and felt familiar in the way that most classical pieces of a certain era felt familiar. It had, or was trying to ape, a vaguely spanish flavor, and the choreography matched it well, the occasional hint of flamenco sneaking into Yuuri’s movements.

Viktor also didn’t know ballet, beyond being dragged to the occasional production of the Nutcracker when a co-worker’s child was playing a reindeer. What Viktor knew was that Yuuri was _very_ good. He moved with grace, with a sense of musicality. Many dancers that Viktor had seen seemed focused on the technique, moving from one flashy movement to the other without concern for how they flowed together. There wasn’t any of that in Yuuri’s dancing. He performed flashy, athletic leaps and movements, certainly. This was clearly a piece designed to show off his technical prowess, but the music was never sacrificed on the altar of showiness. 

The only false note in the performance was the theatricality. Yuuri was clearly striving for a sort of masculinity that rang a bit false. Viktor didn’t know the role, and he didn’t know exactly how long ago this video had been shot. If the sensual storm that Yuuri had been last night was any indication, he would embody the role differently now. Viktor couldn’t know what role Yuuri had in choreographing the piece, and couldn’t know how much of that came from Yuuri himself, but after last night, Viktor had his suspicions.

He wondered what Yuuri would dance like now, on the stage, not wasted in a trashy Quarter bar, with whatever changes and maturity the intervening years had brought.

He really hoped he would find out.

On Sunday, he and Christophe met up for brunch at the Country Club. 

In front of a mural of Louisiana Irises, with a Bloody Mary in one hand and a plate of Boudin Boulettes between them, Viktor let himself be gently put to the question about his new friend. 

“You brought him _home_? My dear, I believe I explicitly told you not to do that.” 

Viktor gave Christophe a look. “I didn’t have too many options. I couldn’t get an address out of him.” 

“So you brought the little lost lamb home and did your best Florence Nightingale? And what did our duckling think of that in the morning?” 

“Mix that metaphor a bit more, I don’t think it’s quite ready yet.” Viktor drained his Bloody Mary with an indelicate slurp. “I stuck him in my bed and slept on the air mattress.” 

“Oh, your poor back.” 

“Yurio had the couch.” 

Christophe guffawed. “Your angry dog-walker was there? Oh, to have been a fly on the wall…” He wiped at his eyes, then paused to signal the server. “I think we’re going to need another drink, don’t you?” Viktor sighed and bid farewell to his productivity for the rest of the day. “Two coffees, please, and if you could Irish Bayou those for us, we’d be much obliged.” 

“There’s not much more to tell,” Viktor went on when they were alone again. “He ran away as quickly as he could in the morning.” He toyed with a fried oyster, but left it on the plate. “I made breakfast.” 

Christophe sighed and gave him a look that was all too knowing. “Are you really surprised, Vitya?” 

“I shouldn’t be, I know.” When Viktor had first moved to town, Christophe had been single and even more relentlessly flirtatious than he was now. They’d enjoyed a brief fling which had made a fairly amicable transition to friendship after about a month. Since then, Christophe had borne witness to many breakups and even more first dates that never progressed beyond a single night of fun. 

“You said you know him from work?” 

“As a patron. He started coming in a couple of weeks ago, uses the wifi, keeps to himself.” 

“He sure seemed pleased to see you,” he looked up to thank the server, passing a mug to Viktor. “Just, give it a bit, Viktor. You know you can be a little.” 

“Much, I know.” The cutlery was suddenly very interesting. Viktor rubbed his thumb across the bowl of his spoon. 

“Come on, you know what I meant.” Chris wheedled. “Put yourself in his shoes: he’s new in town -” 

“New in the country.” 

“Right, even more to my point. He’s new in town, starting school, you said. Maybe it’s not that _you’re_ too much, but he might have a lot going on. Don’t get discouraged if it takes him a bit to get back to you is all.” Christophe dipped a boudin ball in the mustard and popped it into his mouth, smirking as he chewed. “But don’t hold your breath.” 

"Enough about me. How goes the wedding planning?"

Chris lit up, like he always did when given a chance to talk about his fiance. "Let me show you this." He pulled out his phone. "It's Max's new scheme to get Ethel and Mandy involved..."

Viktor propped his elbows on the table and let himself relax while Chris exclaimed how Massimo planned to engineer tiny harnesses for their cats to serve as ring bearers. Viktor had been invited to serve as Christophe's best man. The wedding wasn't until next fall, so he supposed Max and Chris had plenty of time to get it figured out. He sipped his coffee and make the obligatory sympathetic noises. Chris was right: it was nice. _This_ , was nice. Whether Yuuri called or not, he had good friends to day drink and eat extravagant brunches with, he had a stable if boring job, he had the best dog in the world. He had, at least according to some people, a bit of musical talent. So what if he was a little bit lonely?

Viktor could acknowledge that he longed to have someone in his life, that he wasn’t ready to give up hope of this thing with Yuuri turning into something more. It wasn’t that he thought that one night would meant they were soulmates, even Viktor was not that naive, despite the testimony of several reputable gays around town. It just didn’t seem too unreasonable to want to get to know the man better. Still, Christophe’s advice was sound; whether Yuuri called or not, Viktor had a life to live. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Traces of You - Anoushka Shankar and Norah Jones


	5. Waiting for the Earthquakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor's pining, but what is Yuuri up to?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dream of Autumn rewrite continues with slower burns and more pining. I hope you enjoyed the extra Giacommetti last chapter because the trend continues with additional Chulanont in this one. Everybody needs friends. and banh mi.
> 
> see end notes for a couple of content warnings for this chapter.

Yuuri didn’t call Victor. It wasn’t on purpose, at first. Despite what he told Phichit, he wasn’t okay. It wasn’t because of what had happened that night. It was because of what hadn’t happened, but could have. He couldn’t let go of the thoughts: _but what if, what if, what if…_ What if he’d gone home with someone else, what if he’d gotten kicked out and wandered the Quarter, what if he’d gotten beaten up, mugged, worse? What if he’d gone to the Moon Walk and fallen into the Mississippi? What if someone hurt him in a way he couldn’t recover from? What if, what if, what if…

“But that didn’t happen,” Phichit reminded him.

“But that didn’t happen,” Yuuri told himself.

He didn’t drink that week, though, as if the universe would notice that it had left him unscathed and correct the error. 

Victor’s business card lived in the drawer of his nightstand. Sometimes, jittery and looking for something to distract himself, he’d pull it out and think of calling, but he never did. For some reason Yuuri had expected to sort of generic card that workplaces give out, maybe with a personal number scrawled on the back. Instead, this featured the stylized silhouette of a guitar and the simple declaration, “ _Victor Nikiforov, Musician_ ,” above various social media handles and a phone number.

“Oh no,” Yuuri had whispered when he had first looked at it at home that morning, still hungover. He knew that name. He owned that album. Years ago, he’d been part of a small ensemble, a few people from the National Ballet, a few students, that had worked on choreographic some jazz pieces. They had never performed any of the finished dances but Yuuri had fallen in love with a couple of the songs and one of the dancers. The romance had fizzled quickly, leaving Yuuri with a really great pair of sweatpants and a CD by an obscure jazz guitarist based in New Orleans.

He had told himself that surely he was wrong, the coincidence just too much. Perhaps there was another Victor Nikiforov in the city. Another Victor Nikiforov who also played jazz guitar. Now, _that_ was straining credibility. Yuuri was forced to accept the truth: he had humiliated himself in front of one of his favorite musicians. 

He couldn’t call after that. What on earth would he say? After that first week, the card stayed in his drawer and Yuuri decided he wasn’t going to think about it anymore. He dropped off the coffee mug at the branch near his apartment and started using the wifi there. Phichit was right, there was no reason to trek all the way downtown anymore.

It didn’t work. Of course it didn’t work. That evening itched at the back of his mind like a mosquito bite, daring him to scratch it. 

He had rules. Everyone had rules, Yuuri told himself, there was nothing wrong with rules. Yuuri never drank hard liquor on weeknights. He never had more than a single light beer or glass of wine, too afraid of the caloric load on top of his reduced practice schedule. He was responsible. He went to class. He practiced, steadily gaining back strength and flexibility. He obeyed his PT, doing the prescribed exercises and avoiding any weight bearing exercise beyond dance, trading his runs for bike rides.

By Friday, Yuuri had decided that he must not have a problem. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to stop for a week. That was how it worked. So the following Saturday, when a bunch of Phichit’s friends descended on their couch for pizza and _Pan’s Labyrinth_ , Yuuri allowed himself exactly one beer. He was so proud of himself for not wanting more than that that he poured himself a shot of gin before bed. In bed that night, he pulled the business card from his bedside drawer and stared at it in the dim glow of his phone. He stared at the open message app but he couldn’t think of anything to type. Finally he opened Bandcamp instead and downloaded Victor’s album, the CD not having made the trip overseas. He fell asleep to the gentle _la pompe_ strumming of Victor’s guitar.

That seemed to have unlocked something because suddenly Victor was _everywhere_. It started with a flyer stapled to the telephone pole outside the Mushroom. Peeking out between a ‘Lost Dog’ poster (poor pupper) and an ad for gutter cleaning was a flyer advertising upcoming acts at Dos Jefes: ‘Victor Nikiforov with East Infection.’ Yuuri walked the other way.

A week later, Yuuri had a meeting with a voice major about a piece that he was working on for the fall showcase. He walked tentatively down the hall of practice rooms. As he passed a cracked door, he was stopped in his tracks by the now-familiar strains of Stammi Vicino. Yuuri hadn’t realized quite how popular Victor was locally. Rosie had told him and Phichit that New Orleans was the world’s largest small town, or maybe it was the other way around. Yuuri wished he could prepare himself for what might happen if he ran into Victor somewhere, but he couldn’t, not while that damned business card sat in his bedside drawer.

He also couldn’t call now. It had been almost a month. Yuuri had well and truly ghosted Victor and yet he was the one being haunted.

“Yuuri!” Phichit banged on his door at a truly obscene hour. “If you make me late and the tofu lady runs out, I will never forgive you.” They paused, “Okay, I will forgive you, probably, but I will never make you my mother’s special kaeng liang again.”

That’s right. Yuuri had promised to go to the farmer’s market with Phichit. He groaned and swallowed. His mouth was dry and sour tasting. Last night they’d gone to an opening at the Newcomb art gallery and Yuuri had lost track of how many plastic cups of cheap white wine he’d had. “What time is it?” It came out as a croak.

“Almost 5:00. Come _on_ , Yuuri. They’re gonna be out of all the good stuff.”

“Okay, okay,” Yuuri sat on the side of his bed, trying to stop the helicopter spinning of his bedroom by sheer force of will. “Just let me rinse off.”

“Yay! I’ll make you coffee. I give you permission to nap in the car.”

A half hour later, they were in Phichit”s Geo Metro, radio tuned to WWOZ to drown out the awful death rattle the engine had started to make. They drove through parts of the city that Yuuri hadn’t seen yet, from the wide oak-lined boulevards of Gentilly Terrace and across the Industrial Canal into New Orleans East. The city felt very different out there, flatter and more open. The sky, still dark, spread wide above them and the water seemed close at hand. The neighborhoods still bore the scars of Hurricane Katrina, empty homes and businesses, grass-grown lots. It had been a section of town where the residents were less able to rebuild even if they had been able to return from wherever they had settled in the years since. 

It felt like they had almost run out of city when Yuuri started to notice that the business names weren’t in English anymore. Phichit turned left near a strip mall and into a neighborhood where modest homes mixed contentedly with small apartment buildings and yet more commercial strips. Even in the blue light of early morning, Yuuri could see that many yards were lush with vegetation, green-ness straining at the bonds of chain-link fences. Yuuri could spot the foliage of loquat trees with a sudden pang of homesickness.

Yuuri culinary prowess was limited to pre-packaged curry mixes and whatever he could easily steam in his rice-cooker, so he was content to trail behind Phichit, carrying their bags as they asked questions about the mountains of produce on offer. When they were finished Yuuri had no idea how they could possibly be expected to eat all of this, but it was a nice morning, his hangover was finally starting to lose its grip, and Phichit had told him that there was a famous Vietnamese bakery just around the corner. For once, Yuuri could honestly say that he was feeling pretty good.

Over cups of Vietnamese coffee redolent with chicory and sweet with condensed milk, Phichit told Yuuri how excited they were about their courses. 

“I was talking to my advisor, and I’m seriously considering the costume design track. I thought I wanted to do set design but I kinda wonder if costume design might be marketable in the long run. I’m seriously regretting not getting that almond roll. Wanna split one?”

It took Yuuri a moment to catch up to the change of subject. He knew he shouldn’t, he knew he would feel bad about it later, but the pastries had looked delicious. He nodded but phichit hadn’t actually waited for a response.

They were back quickly and picked up the conversation as if there had been no interruption, “I mean, I’ve been sewing for years, and I’m good at social media. I could start one of those Youtube channels where I criticize the historical inaccuracies in Bronte adaptations and sell shit at Renaissance Faires. Even if I didn’t get to see my designs on stage, I could probably get by. Maybe it would even be fun.”

Yuuri started to respond, but his mouth was full of flaky pastry. He washed it down with some coffee and tried again. “It sounds cool to me. If you have time, maybe I could get your opinion on costumes for the showcase.”

“Or you could let me make you something, you know.”

“Phichit, I can’t ask for something like that. It’s not just me, you know, I’m choreographing that group piece for the movement class, too.”

“I know, that’s why it would be such a good idea,” Phichit grinned. “You could help me build my portfolio. You can pay me back by modelling things for me.”

“Me?” Yuuri asked, incredulously, wiping crumbs from his mouth. “I don’t think I’ll be very good at that. No one’s gonna want to see _me_.”

Phichit didn’t even try to hide their eye roll. “It’s a moot point, I haven’t made anything yet, and all my old stuff is in Bangkok. Just think about it, okay?”

Back in the car, they rolled the windows down and turned up the radio. Phichit decided to take a different route home, driving them past the abandoned amusement park and out to the Lakefront.

They passed a small airport and crossed a tall drawbridge, sun shining bright behind them and sparkling on Lake Pontchartrain, Yuuri bopping his head along to the music, one hand out the window to feel the air between his fingers.

As the song ended, the DJ broke in. “ _That was Irma Thomas, the Soul Queen of New Orleans with ‘Ruler of My Heart.’ Switching gears a little bit, I’d like to introduce our guest. Today we have Victor Nikiforov in the studio. Now Victor, it’s been ten years since you released your beloved LP ‘Stay With Me.’ What are you up to these days?_ ”

“ _Thanks for having me, Stephan. Well, you know, I went and got a day job._ ” They both chuckled. “ _My old combo broke up several years ago, but you can still hear me playing around town_.”

“ _For real, for real. Everybody’s gotta hustle these days, man_.”

“ _Yes, definitely_ ,” Victor replied, laughing lightly. The sound made something warm curl up warm and soft at the base of Yuuri’s spine.

“ _So, I understand you’ve got a new project_.”

“ _That’s right. I’ve gotten together with a fantastic group of artists…_ ”

Phichit turned down the radio. “You okay there?”

That was when Yuuri noticed that his fists were clenched so hard his fingernails were digging into his palms. “Yeah, sorry. Do you, uh, do you mind if I change the channel?”

“Uh, no, go for it.”

"Thanks." He flipped over to NPR and pretended to be very interested in _Car Talk._ Phichit's concerned glances went unacknowledged. Yuuri was getting really good at ignoring things lately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meklit Hadero - Waiting for the Earthquakes
> 
> In this chapter yuuri has a little delayed reaction anxiety over how his night could have gone differently in a personal safety sense. Yuuri also spends some time reflecting on (and bargaining with) his relationship to alcohol and he's being pretty hard on himself about it. there's also some drinking and a light hangover. there's also a little food/diet/exercise worry starting which will continue to be a factor. tags have been adjusted to reflect this.


	6. In Between Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yurio gets some good news and Victor watches some dancing.

New Orleans really only had two seasons, summer and not. “Not” was primarily marked by a slight drop in humidity and a few more grey skies. Victor knew it was October by the way the live oak acorns crunched underfoot when he went for an early morning run. 

At work, he was surprised to see Christophe wander in, sunglasses perched on the end of his nose. He walked right past Victor who was covering a rare shift at the checkout desk and hoping that no one would yell at him about their fines. Victor let him go, because Lilliane had just wandered past the Information Desk and nothing pleased him more than seeing her forced to interact with patrons as if she was just another one of the peons. Once he had seen a soccer mom with perfect “can i speak to the manager” haircut try to argue Lilliane into unsubscribing from Teen Vogue. It had been glorious.

Instead, Christophe just asked her a question and Lilliane had pointed one of her talons at Victor. It was a perfectly civil interaction and Victor sighed with disappointment as Christophe approached the self-check station, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Victor, darling, I don’t usually find you over here. You’re usually tucked away behind a computer.”

“Yeah, he’s slumming it with the circulation department today,” muttered Nick from the next computer, where he was refilling the receipt paper, a task Victor was not yet trusted to perform.

Victor stuck his tongue out while Chris quirked an eyebrow at the supervisor. They talked about the weather until Nick stood up with a grunt, pulled a comb from his pocket and combed his bangs back down over his forehead, and returned to the workroom.

“So, then, what are you up to next Thursday?”

“I think I’m free. After six or so, at least.” With a quick glance around, Victor pulled out his cell phone to check his calendar. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason in particular.” Victor had known Chris far too long to ignore that sly look.

“Chris… If this is another one of your eligible friends, I’m very extremely Not Interested.” The last time he’d let Chris set him up, Victor had ended up listening to a veritable picaresque romance about his trip to Burning Man. While his date narrated his physical and mental journey of self discovery, Victor had only discovered a new heights of boredom.

“Oh ye of little faith. I’m not setting you up. I’m just looking for someone with an appreciation for the Arts.” He leaned on the counter. “You see, I happened to run into a mutual acquaintance at Zot’s.” Victor’s phone buzzed in his hand. Christophe went on, “he was posting a flyer for that event, looking like he’d already had more than his fair share of caffeine.”

Victor darted a glance at his phone, “An Evening of Dance, huh?” It took him a moment to put the pieces together, but ultimately it was Christophe’s coy smirk that did the trick. “No. Absolutely not. He obviously doesn’t want to see me again. He hasn’t even come back to the library,” he finished on a hiss as Yurio came up to the counter, slamming a stack of German Expressionists on the RFID pad and entering his card number with a series of jabs that made Victor wince in sympathy with the screen.

“What are you losers talking about?” He snatched the receipt and stuffed it in the flap of the Kathe Kollwitz.

“Don’t worry, kitten, you’ll understand when you’re older.”

“God, I hate you. What are you doing here? Can you even read?” He shoved the books into his backpack. “How’re Ethel and Bernadette?” 

“Spoiled.”

“Good.” Yurio stalked off, shrugging the straps of his pack over his shoulders. Victor offered a wave to the leopard print backpack.

“Well, you’ll make your own decision, of course, but I should mention that your dancer friend did mention that I should, perhaps, invite you.”

“Did he really?” Victor had known Chris long enough to be sceptical.

“Well, no,” Christophe was looking at something over Victor’s left shoulder. “I asked, and he didn’t object. He just blushed and warned me that he would not actually be dancing. It was cute.”

“Ah.”

Chris sighed and looked at him over his sunglasses. “Look, darling, if you don’t want to reopen this chapter, I understand, and I’ll leave it be. It’s just been a long time since I’ve seen you like this.” He patted the counter in front of Victor. “I’ll get out of your hair. It’s just something to think about. I’ll check in with you later.”

On Thursday morning, Victor texted Chris. He wished, truly wished, that it had been a harder decision to make, but he would have been lying to himself if he’d pretended there was ever any doubt. Even the rumore of Yuuri’s possible presence was enough to induce Victor to sit through an evening of lackluster student performances.

When Yurio stopped at the desk that afternoon, Victor could tell something was different. Yurio was vibrating with something other than annoyance. 

“Thanks,” Yurio bit the words out like it physically hurt him.

“You’re welcome, I’m sure. What am I being thanked for?”

“One of your asshole friends actually came through.” There was a grin. It was sarcastic and hiding behind a serving of apathy, but it was still there. “I got a fucking job, man.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Why the fuck would I be kidding, old man?” The smile made escaped briefly, “I fucking deserve this.”

“Where is it?”

“Golden Eagle, in the Bywater. Some guy named Altin runs it?”

“Oh, Otabek? Otabek’s…” How to describe Otabek? Words like _brooding_ and _intense_ came to mind. “...Very talented. And probably very demanding.”

“That’s good. I’ll learn faster that way. He’s gonna pay me to do some boring shit, clean up and stuff around the shop until i get good enough.” The little stick and poke tattoo on his left knuckles stretched as he clenched his fist in triumph.

“That’s amazing!” Victor had a sudden idea. “We should celebrate! I’ll take you to dinner. If you’re free, that is.”

“Free food? Hell yeah. I want Juan’s, and not the bullshit NPR one uptown.”

“You got it, OG Juan’s on Magazine. Then we can walk over to the CAC for the show!”

“Wait. What?”

“You can come to the ballet with me!”

“Why the fuck would you think I would want to do that?”

Victor paused, thoughtful, a finger to his lips. “Is it even ballet, actually? Maybe it’s modern dance. Or something else altogether? I don’t know-”

Yurio’s head thumped on the Infodesk before Victor could finish his thought.

“Juan’s at six?”

Yurio gave him a thumbs up without lifting his head.

They decided to walk to the CAC, after dinner. Despite Yurio’s insistence on a prolonged visit with a near feral tom cat lounging in a dry birdbath on Magazine Street, they got there a solid 20 minutes early. They wandered through the gallery, Yurio alternately bitching about and admiring the quality of the art in the current Works on Paper exhibit. Victor’s suggestion that he should have entered something was met with withering scorn and a reminder of the $70 application fee which segued into a lengthy diatribe about a show he had entered in Alexandria that still insisted on submissions on 35mm slides. Victor nodded along distractedly until he noticed a familiar figure standing behind Yurio and mimicking his scowl. He suppressed a smirk.

“Kitten! What brings you here?”

Yurio whipped around. “Oh, it’s you,” he groaned, then added more enthusiastically, “Hi, Max,” to Christophe’s more sedate counterpart. “How’re the cats?” Christophe watched fondly as Yurio and Massimo disappeared down the rabbit hole of Ethel and Bernadette’s Instagram account.

“I think your fiance is the only human that Yurio likes.”

“He’s the only other human that speaks cat as fluently as he does,” Christophe commented, wrapping an arm around Victor’s shoulders.

“Well folks, I think it’s about time to find some seats,” Massimo contributed, checking his watch.

At Yurio’s loud insistence, they found seats toward the back. Since it gave Victor a better opportunity to watch the rest of the audience, he couldn’t complain. If he was looking for a certain grad student, though, he was doomed to disappointment. The lights went down with no sightings of Yuuri.

Victor settled in, expectations low. Before long, though, he found himself engaged and pleasantly surprised by the quality of the performances. Oh, certainly, Victor’s recent deep dive into the world of ballet had allowed him to spot some very derivative pieces, but there was also a lot of genuine artistry on display.

Even the most lackluster piece had a nice shimmer of youth and passion. Victor found himself engrossed in each performance. As the curtains closed on the hip isolations of a very Fosse-inspired hip-hop number, Victor stretched and glanced over at Yurio, who was doodling on his program. He didn’t understand how Yurio could see anything in the dim glow from the stage.

Victor froze as he recognized the music of the next piece. Christophe and Yurio managed to simultaneously elbow him from each side, as if he would somehow not notice that it was him. The song was Stammi Vicino, the most popular song from his one and only album. Victor had written it ages ago, and had conceived of it as an aria, but he had never performed it with a vocalist, and he was not sadistic enough to inflict his own singing on an audience. The lyrics languished in a notebook while he let his guitar do the singing. Nevertheless, it had gotten a fair amount of radio play locally and on college radio stations across the nations, at least for a few years.

The piece was performed by four students, all dressed in short white shifts. They began to move, spread out, separate. His first thought was that these must be very new performers, because their motions seemed stiff and uncertain at the beginning of the dance. Before long, though, it became apparent that this was exaggerated for artistic effect. As the song continued, the dancers moved closer, intertwining hands and legs, dancing in unison before splitting apart again into solos, the group welcoming the dancer back each time with caresses and fleeting touches. With every brush of hands the movements became stronger, more fluid, more confident. The dancers spun in a circle, swirling into a tight mass before blooming outward with great leaps and spins before contracting again. This expansion and contraction repeated, the beating of a heart, the blooming of a flower, until they exploded again to the four corners of the stage where they froze, exultant, before a simple bow and a graceful jog offstage.

“Huh. That one was okay, I guess,” Yurio grudgingly commented from his right, under the cover of applause. Victor held his program up, straining to read in the dim light. His instinct was correct. Katsuki Yuuri was listed as the choreographer.

Victor had trouble sitting through the next piece. It was probably very nice, but it suffered, in Victor’s estimation, by having to follow Yuuri’s choreography. He applauded dutifully as the trio of young women struck a pose and the lights dimmed for their exit.

The last piece was a large ensemble dance, and was over quickly. As the house lights came up, Yurio stretched. “Okay, I’m out.”

“But, Brocato’s?”

Yurio gave him a skeptical eye. “Tch. I saw the inferior Yuuri’s name in the program. I bet you want to hang out and, like, talk to him.” He grimaced. “No amount of ice cream is worth watching you two weirdos try to flirt.” He was already climbing over the back of his seat in his haste to escape. “Tell him he did pretty good, I guess.”

“Do you need a ride?” Massimo offered.

“Nah, I’m good,” he replied, before jabbing a finger at Victor. “Hey, old man, don’t forget that you owe me some spumoni.” He paused, then added, as if he was concerned that he’d shown too much affection, “Asshole.”

“Good night, Yurio!” Victor chirped, smiling at the extended middle finger that was Yurio’s standard farewell.

Christophe chuckled before looping an arm around Victor’s shoulders. “Shall we go greet the performers?”

"I don't know," Victor began. There was a little cluster by the edge of a stage, performers still in costume, clutching bouquets, sharing hugs. It looked very joyful and very exclusive. Victor spotted a couple of the dancers in their white shifts emerge from the door next to the stage. A dark haired figure broke away from one of the chatting groups and jogged over to them to share a hug. Yuuri. Even from across the auditorium, Victor could see his laughter. Before he knew it he was stepping into the aisle.

When he looked back, Christophe just quirked an eyebrow.

"Come on, let's go say hi."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Between Love - Tom Waits
> 
> I can't think of any warnings this time.


	7. Moon Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dancing, music, something almost resembling adult communication?! yet another chapter of the Dream of Autumn re-write.

“Okay, so even you have to admit that went really well,” Phichit commented as the applause died down. They took their seats and settled in to wait for the auditorium to clear and for the dancers to start filtering out through the stage door.

“They did a great job. It’s not like I gave them much time to learn it, in the end.” He let himself smile. His students had really done a great job with the choreography, elevating it beyond what Yuuri had envisioned. He even felt the tentative stirrings of pride, unearned though it was. “Thanks again for the costumes. I still can’t believe you put them together so fast.” 

Phichit shrugged. “It was nothing, really. I just got lucky that the whole minimal thing worked for the piece. You owe me, though.” 

“I know,” Yuuri sighed, still not sure why Phichit thought that Yuuri would be anything more than a complete disaster as a model. At least Phichit had agreed to let Yuuri buy his dinner. Yuuri had promised dinner to his whole ensemble. It was the least he could do for them all, when they’d been so gracious, meeting up for rehearsals after class, putting up with Yuuri’s frequent changes to the choreography and some of his more eccentric ideas with good humor. 

One thing to be said for minimal costuming: it didn’t take long for Yuuri to see his dancers emerging from the stage door, casual in sweats and yoga pants, stage makeup looking extra stark on their young faces under the house lights. Yuuri grabbed his backpack and led the way from the now empty row. 

“Mr. Yuuri!” One of them waved, bouncing on his toes, the red-dyed streak having escaped from the gel that held the rest of his hair in place and bobbing like a rooster’s comb. 

“Great job, Kenji,” he said, responding to the freshman’s eager fist-bump. 

“Did you _hear_ the applause?” Phichit chimed in, their chin on Yuuri’s shoulder. “I think the term ‘crushed it,’ is applicable.” 

The other students had joined them, some clutching bouquets supplied by enthusiastic parents and various significant others. As Yuuri shook hands and made encouraging comments, he did his best to ignore the tall figure watching from a row near the back, not sure how long his composure would last if he acknowledged Victor’s presence. He suddenly, violently, wished that he had not told the flirty bartender at the Oz about the performance. Then Christophe had mentioned that his friend Victor was a fan of the arts, and wondered if it would be alright if he came. Yuuri had said, yes, of course. What else could he say? He had comforted himself with the reminder that Victor would almost certainly want nothing more to do with him. It wasn’t even that he didn’t want to see Victor again. It was just that flirting with Victor at the library and engaging in whatever kind of drunken shenanigans he’d gotten up to was one thing, but the idea of an actual sober conversation was something else altogether. 

Maybe he could convince the rest of the group to leave through the loading dock. 

No. Yuuri was an adult man of 27. He could totally handle mature conversation if he wanted to. He was going to walk out through the main exit with his head held high. He would say hi to Christophe, make polite, if strained, conversation with Victor, and then he would go out with his friends and eat all the tendon that his ridiculous American friends would pick out of their phô. He squared his shoulders, hitched up his backpack, and headed over. 

Victor looked up from his conversation and gave Yuuri a sheepish wave. Christophe winked. 

“Thanks for coming,” Yuuri said, surprised to find that he meant it. He looked at Chris, flamboyantly dapper in a salmon colored button down and dark chinos. “You know, I almost didn’t recognize you in clothes.” Oh god. “I mean, not like that, just, at the bar, you know!” He waved his hands frantically and Christophe’s smile widened in direct relation to the heat in Yuuri’s cheeks.. 

“Oh, that’s alright, Yuri,” he purred, “I could say the same for you!” Yuuri wondered if it was actually possible to spontaneously combust from shame. 

He was rescued by the third man in the group, a tall, sedate looking fellow with shaggy brown hair. “I’m Massimo,” he said, “And for some ungodly reason, I’m engaged to that one.” He rolled his eyes fondly at Christophe. 

That left Yuuri with nowhere else to turn. “Hi again,” he said, trying to avoid Victor’s bright gaze. 

“That was a lovely performance. Thank you for inviting us.” 

“Oh, well, I, that is -” Yuuri forced himself to make eye contact. He lasted maybe a second. “I didn’t have much to do with it.” 

“Yuuri! The freshmen say they’re going to pull a Donner Party if you don’t hurry up.” Phichit’s voice filtered through the warm fog that seemed to envelop Yuuri whenever he talked to Victor. “Oh, hi, um - “ 

“Victor,” he supplied, smoothly turning from Yuuri to shake Phichit’s hand. 

“Wait, not -” Phichit began, then smoothly redirected with a glance at Yuuri’s face, “It’s nice to meet you, Victor, I’m Phichit, Yuuri's roommate, costumer, and social media manager.” Yuuri sighed in relief until they went on, “So, Victor, how do you know Yuri?” 

“Oh, I’ve just run into him, here and there, around,” Victor began. “Actually -” 

“Phichit! Let me introduce you to Christophe!” Yuuri interrupted, even though he was well aware that would prove an even more embarrassing combination. While they were happily following each other’s Instagrams and cooing over pictures of their pets, Yuuri found himself beside Victor. 

“Thank you for coming,” Yuuri said, looking intently at a patch of floor about two meters in front of his feet. “I know it wasn’t…” 

“Wasn’t what?” 

“I mean, I know that it’s not…” how could he put it? Not everyone’s thing, just a student production, he wasn’t even a performer these days, was barely even a choreographer. He just ended with a shrug. “So, it was nice of you to come, and bring your friends.” 

“You mean Christophe?” Victor replied with a laugh. “Yuri, he came on his own. I do not intend to embarrass you, but I think you’ve become a legend at the Oz.” Yuuri groaned. He didn’t even properly remember most of that night. Victor went on, “I brought Yurio, though.” 

What. “Yurio? The kid from the library?” 

“Yes! He took off, of course, but he said to tell you, and I quote, ‘Fine, that was kind of cool, I guess.’” Yuuri couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him at Victor’s uncanny impression of the young man. 

“Wow, high praise, then.” Yuuri looked over at Victor. “I was proud of my little ensemble. They worked very hard and put up with a lot from a lackluster choreographer.” 

“Interesting choice of song, I thought.” Victor mused. “I was starting to wonder whether you’d even seen my card.” 

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri said, “I meant to call, I really did.” He risked a glance at Victor’s face, but Victor didn’t seem inclined to assist. “It’s not a good excuse, but I just couldn’t face you after that. I could hardly face myself.” 

“So you looked me up, then used my song to choreograph a love letter which you then debuted at a performance that you didn’t even officially invite me to?” Victor sounded faintly amused. 

“That’s not quite what happened.” 

“Oh?” 

“No, I didn’t have to look you up,” Yuuri clarified in a fit of unexpected honesty. “I actually started planning that piece years ago, the first time I heard it. Before I even left Japan.” 

“Oh. Wow.” Victor sounded a little stunned. “So you knew who I was?” 

“Sort of? I mean, I knew who Victor Nikiforov, master of jazz guitar was. I knew who Victor the librarian was. I just didn’t know that they were the same person.” 

“How interesting,” Victor said. If he was going to explain further, he didn’t get the chance. The rest of the ensemble had escaped their admirers and was hovering impatiently in the aisle. 

“Oh, um, right. I guess we should - “ Yuuri straightened and looked at Victor. He raised an eyebrow. “Um, have you eaten? We were going to Phô Tau Bay.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude. Another time, maybe?” Yuuri was torn between relief and disappointment. “I’m performing next Friday. At the Spotted Cat. You should come, if you’re free, that is.” Victor looked over Yuuri's shoulder. “You could bring your friends.” 

“Okay, yeah, I’ll try, I mean.” 

“Good.” Victor held out his hand with a wry smirk. 

Yuuri couldn’t help but laugh at that. He took the hand and shook it, stiffly, formally, then pulled Victor cinto a rough half hug. “I think we’re a little past the handshake stage.” 

Victor lifted his shoulder in a shrug, “I didn’t want to come on too strong in front of your students.” 

“It didn’t seem like you were worried about that before,” Yuuri commented. “For the record, I, um, don’t mind,” he whispered into Victor’s shoulder. 

Victor gently pushed him back and looked down into his eyes. Yuuri didn’t let his gaze wander, even as his heart stuttered in his chest. “Good to know,” Victor said as he bent to brush his lips against Yuuri's. It was barely a kiss, just a brief, tantalizing touch, a moment of shared breath, then Victor tightened his arms again, holding Yuuri close. 

Phichit cleared their throat. Yuuri straightened and stepped back, adjusting his glasses in an attempt to collect himself. Minami had literally clasped his hands to his heart and was looking frantically from Victor to Yuuri and back, mouth agape. Victor was still watching him, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. 

“Okay, then, who’s driving?” Yuuri asked, and turned briskly toward the exit, ignoring the blush that crept all the way up his neck. Outside the theater they piled into Phichit’s Metro. While the quartet of dancers wedged themselves into the back seat, Yuuri looked back to see Victor watching them. Yuuri waved, and Victor’s smile lit up his face, even from across the parking lot.

By the end of the next week, New Orleans was in the full grip of something that could almost be mistaken for autumn, if one were inclined to lower their standards. With nothing to show for it but a respite from the humidity and a marked increase in the quantity of crunchy live oak acorns on every sidewalk, the locals were comically excited about the change in seasons and had universally declared sixty degrees fahrenheit to be “sweater weather.” He and Phichit (who was wreaking havoc on Yuuri's carefully constructed nutritional program) had treated themselves to burgers for lunch when Phichit addressed the invitation that Yuuri, despite its inclusion on WWOZ’s daily live music listing and robust presence on telephone poles, had been trying to forget about.

“So, we’re going to the Spotted Cat later, right?”

Yuuri sighed. “Uh, yeah, I guess so.” 

Phichit dragged a fry through some ketchup. “Just making sure. I don’t want to iron if you’re just gonna stand me up.” They popped the fry in their mouth, looking pleased. “I’ll invite Guang-Hong from Drafting. Oh, and Izzy from my philosophy seminar. Mari will be so proud.”

”What does my sister have to do with anything?” Yuuri asked, a horrible suspicion blooming.

”Weeell,” they didn’t look nearly as guilty as Yuuri thought they should, “we might, sort of, follow each other on Insta. She says to make sure you do something other than go to class and rehearse. She wants photographic proof.”

”You’re joking, right?”

Phichit looked deeply offended. “Yuuri. Instagram is very important. I would never joke about it.”

  
  
  


They got to the bar while the band was setting up and laid claim to a table in the corner. It was hard to see the stage, but easier to chat. Phichit was chatting comfortably with their friends while Yuuri sipped a tumbler of whiskey, listening to the conversation and the sounds of the band tuning up. The bar was rapidly filling, which Yuuri figured was a good sign. 

Scattered applause and a dimming of the general lights called a temporary halt to their conversation. A young woman with Snow White’s dark hair and bright lips stepped forward and grasped the microphone. From their corner, all Yuuri could see were her head and shoulders as she looked at the musician beside her, bobbing her head in time to someone’s count. It was impossible not to recognize Victor’s playing. The first arpeggio gave way to the rhythmic _la pompe_ strumming that characterized Victor’s brand of Hot Club Jazz, as he ceded the melody to a dark haired clarinet player. Yuuri chugged the rest of his whiskey.

Phichit noticed that something was up and looked over at him. “You okay?” They asked, concern coloring their voice.

Yuuri nodded, throat dry. “I’m gonna grab another drink. Anyone else?” He stood without waiting for a response and let his feet lead him to the bar. Anya was singing now, an arrangement of “It Don’t Mean a Thing (if it Ain’t got that Swing).” He could see the rest of the band now. The light was glinting off of the Victor’s silver hair. He was bent over his guitar, wearing a black tank top, accessorized with a rainbow sweatband around his left wrist.

Yuuri stood for a moment, mesmerized by the motion of those long graceful fingers on the frets of the guitar and the way the muscles of his forearms subtly flexed as he played. He would look up, laughter in his eyes as he checked in with another piece of the ensemble. As the violinist rampaged through a solo, Victor shouted some sort of encouragement in Russian, fingers flying across the strings. Anya took the lead again, the transitions seamless, perfect, each instrument like an organ of a body, beating and pulsing together, like lovers entwined around the rhythm of Victor’s guitar.

The song whirled to an end and the musicians were laughing, chatting, sipping beverages. Victor mopped his forehead with a bandana and addressed the audience, pulling a microphone close, looking steadily into the crowd as if he could feel the weight of Yuuri’s gaze. Yuuri turned quickly away and headed for the bar.

“Thank you!” Victor’s voice didn’t let him go, even as Yuuri shouted his order to the bartender. “Allow me to introduce tonight’s guest, Anya Katzen,” Yuuri watched from the corner of his eye as she curtsied, coquettish in her red dress. “On bass we have Mila Babicheva. She has renounced her heavy metal ways, but you may recognize her from Malignant Mass.” The pretty redhead rolled her eyes and kicked in his general direction. “On clarinet we have the incomparable George Popovic.” The intense looking goth guy raised one hand in acknowledgement. “And on violin is Seung-il Lee.” He didn’t even respond, engaged in tuning his instrument. “Okay! You’ll recognize the next tune, I think…”

With that, they were off again, an arrangement of Django Reinhardt’s Minor Swing. Yuuri was familiar with the tune, every Manouche jazz act had covered it at least once, but there was a certain magic to this particular combination of musicians. Victor and Seung-il traded off rhythm duties, the violinist strumming his instrument like a lute when Victor picked up the lead, and transitioned smoothly back to bowing when it came time for his solo.

Yuuri tried to slink back to hide at his table, but despite his best efforts, that bright blue gaze landed on him as he edged his way back across the room, drinks balanced precariously in his hands. His stomach fluttered ridiculously, even though he had no reason to think that Victor could see individuals in the audience with any sort of clarity.

Phichit grabbed his shoulder as he took his seat and leaned over to speak in his ear. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri nodded, and because it seemed like he should say something else, added, “They’re good.” Phichit nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes, it turns out your tall drink of vodka is quite the musician,” Phichit replied. “You’re really okay being here, right? I mean, it seems like there’s something going on with you two.”

“It’s fine,” Yuuri answered untruthfully. The reality was something much more complicated and personal. “I’m glad I came.” That part was true.

Victor’s voice pulled Yuuri's attention back to the stage. “Okay, I apologize for this one. I don’t usually do this, but I can’t let Anya have all the fun.” Victor was adjusting a capo on his guitar, before strumming gently before counting off slowly. The bassist, her fiery hair catching the light, had traded her electric bass for the upright version. She began the song, plucking gently at the strings with a gentle swinging rhythm before the rest of the band joined her. Yuuri's chest tightened as he recognized the melody of Stammi Vicino. Then Victor started to sing. Yuuri hadn’t known that Victor sang. He hadn’t known that the song had words.

In a completely objective way, Yuuri instantly understood why Victor didn’t sing on any of his albums. He understood that this wasn’t necessarily a “good” singing voice. Unlike his playing, his voice was clearly untrained. While the pitch was mostly true, he sort of wavered around before settling on a note, and somehow his Russian accent came through rougher and more pronounced this way. There was a hoarseness to it, a hint of a breathy burr that vibrated through Yuuri's bones. Phichit elbowed him, as if Yuuri hadn’t already noticed the way that Victor’s gaze lingered on their corner of the crowded bar.

“Okay, wow, thank you so much! You’ve been an amazing crowd.” Victor exclaimed, wiping his forehead. “Just one more song, I think. What do you say, shall we have a little fun?” His bandmates nodded; Mila grinned impishly. It took Yuuri a moment to place the melody, but he had to laugh when Anya started to sing. They had somehow arranged Rainbow in the Dark to a bossa nova rhythm. The audience loved it, especially when Anya did her best Ronnie James Dio impression, horns and all. They clapped until their hands hurt, and Yuuri didn’t look away when Victor’s eyes found him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moon Dreams by Miles Davis
> 
> Don't forget that there's a playlist for this fic: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5pISUptxkSwfKSD76kQkdF


	8. 'Round Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adult communication? lookit 'em go!

After the applause died down, the conversation at Yuuri’s table turned to movies, not a surprising turn of events when Phichit was involved. They were embroiled in an increasingly vigorous debate about Nicholas Cage’s best performance. Yuuri had been unceremoniously dispatched to the bar for another round when he had mentioned that he kinda liked National Treasure. 

He waited for the bartender to notice him, resting his forearms against the bar. A soft touch at his waist startled him, but quickly turned to something warmer when Victor’s pale lanky figure leaned against the bar next to him, copying his pose. He lifted a hand to signal the bartender. 

“So, Katsuki Yuuri. Did you enjoy our show?” Victor was looking forward, as if he was speaking to someone else. Yuuri followed suit, even as the hand at his waist settled into a more comfortable position. 

“I did.” He leaned slightly into the touch. “Did you, Victor Nikiforov? ” He eyes stayed on the uplit bottles behind the bar, but he knew when Victor turned toward him. 

He felt, rather than saw the shrug. “You know what? I did.” Yuuri turned to face Victor, eyes drawn to his lips, moist from his drink. He smelled of exertion and vodka and a hint of tobacco. Yuuri took a half step forward. 

“So this wasn’t just another day at the office for you?” 

“No. I think we’ll play together again.” 

“What will you call yourselves? The Nikiforov Quintet?” 

“No, that’s boring, Yuuri. We’ll be East Infection,” Victor smirked. 

“Oh my.” 

“It was Mila’s idea.” 

“I guess it’s better than Malignant Mass.” 

“Don’t laugh. They were really good. At least until their drummer suffered a career-ending injury,” Victor scolded him gravely. 

“Oh. That’s terrible. What happened?” Yuuri replied with concern, but Victor gave him a wink. 

“Do you know what noodling is?” 

“Do I want to know what noodling is? It sounds like something you shouldn’t look at on library computers.” 

“It is a method of catching catfish. You find a catfish hole, and you put your hand in it.” 

“I’m uncomfortable with this conversation,” Yuuri replied, entranced by the mischievous light in Victor’s eyes. “Please keep going.” 

Victor smirked, “I guess catfish get very big down here, and they don’t really have teeth, so you stick your hand down there, and sort of wiggle your fingers around, like so -” he demonstrated with a flourish, making Yuuri squint at his fingers, “And then the catfish thinks they are food, and then, Chomp!” He clamped his other hand around his wrist. Yuuri cringed. “And then you pull it out and, voila, you have a fish.” 

“That sounds like a terrible idea.” 

Victor nodded forcefully, “Apparently, instead of catfish, he caught an alligator snapping turtle, and so -” Victor held up his right hand and folded down his ring finger and pinky. 

Yuuri groaned, “You made all that up.” 

“No! I am scrupulously honest!” Victor protested, bumping his shoulder into Yuuri's. “You cannot tell me that is not a better story than a messy breakup and a fight over iguana custody arrangements.” 

“Actually that sounds pretty compelling.” 

“Holistic attorneys were involved.” 

“That’s not a thing, is it?” Yuuri gave Victor a distrustful look. 

“Oh, my sweet summer child, you have not been in this city long enough if you don’t know about holistic attorneys.” He smiled when Yuuri snickered. “Thank you for coming, Yuuri.” 

“You should thank Phichit, I’m not sure I would have been brave enough if they hadn’t insisted.” 

“Phichit is your charming roommate, yes? I owe them a great debt.” Victor said with such mock sincerity that Yuuri had to laugh. 

Yuuri took a fortifying sip of his drink. “May I offer some constructive criticism?” Victor waved a hand in permission. “You liked watching me dance, right?” 

Victor nodded. “Very much.” 

Yuuri leaned forward, letting his cheek rest against Victor’s, mouth close to his ear. “Next time, play somewhere with a dance floor,” he scolded, drawing back. He lifted his hand to Victor’s chin, but changed his mind and let his knuckle rest against Victor’s chest, feeling it rise with a sharp intake of breath. He rapped gently on his breastbone, then looked over Victor’s shoulder. 

Yuuri’s brief flirtation with courage ended when he saw Phichit and friends making their way toward the bar. 

“Let’s go, Yuuri! We’re starving!” Guang-Hong whined dramatically, appearing behind Phichit and resting his chin on their shoulder. They laughed and mussed his hair. Izzy snapped a picture. “Oh, hello,” he said, noticing Victor. “Great show!” He extended a hand and Victor gave it a friendly shake. 

“Hello! Thank you...all... for coming.” Yuuri may have been imagining it, but he thought Victor looked a little overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of graduate students. “Phichit, right?” 

Phichit grinned, a little sharply, “You got it. You know, I don’t know if I ever heard exactly how you and Yuuri met.” 

“Oh, well, we first met at the library, when was that? Back in August?” 

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” Yuuri swallowed the last of his drink. “So, what was that about dinner?” 

Phichit looked at Yuuri, then they looked at Victor. Then they grabbed Yuuri's elbow and started steering him toward the restroom. “Excuse us just a minute, Victor! Yuuri needs to, um, powder his nose.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Yup! And he needs me for, um, moral support. He has a...shy...bladder. Uh. ‘Kay thanks bye!” Phichit dragged Yuuri off, ignoring his squawk of protest. 

“Oh god, Phichit, are you trying to kill me? I’m going to literally die of embarrassment. Besides, there is no way I’m going into a French Quarter bathroom. They are disgusting, and if I get cholera I will find a way to give it to you.” 

“Stop being so dramatic, Yuuri. That’s my job.” Phichit waved their hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, we’re just conducting a quick strategy meeting in the hall.” They edged away from the line of women who looked more than ready to defend their places in the bathroom line with violence if necessary. “Yuuri, your, erm, evident thirst is a matter of great concern to me. Allow your Auntie Phichit to help you in your quest for hydration.” 

“Oh god,” Yuuri buried his face in his hands. 

“Yuuri,” Phichit sing-songed. “Stop me if I’m wrong, but you’re gay, right?” 

“We’ve already had this conversation, Phichit. We did grammar and everything,” Yuuri muttered, without lifting his head. 

“Yes, yes, ‘I am large, I contain multitudes.’ And you like Victor, right? Like, ‘when i think about you i touch myself’ kind of like?” 

“Augh.” 

“I have also used my incredible powers of observation to deduce that Victor is also Very Interested. I mean, you literally ghosted the man for a month after he made you a whole-ass breakfast. You should be in like Tracy!” They smirked and Yuuri regretted ever telling his roommate anything. 

“First, it was a biscuit.” 

“And coffee.” 

“And second, isn’t the expression ‘in like Flynn’?” 

“Yes, but Errol Flynn was a terrible human, so we won’t talk about him.” 

“And Spencer Tracy was a paragon of virtue?” 

“No, but he was a better actor than Flynn. Can we skip to the part where I’m trying to get you laid?” 

“Why am I friends with you?” 

“Because I’m the best.” Phichit nudged Yuuri with their shoulder, “And, unless I have lost all ability to read human emotion, Victor is, like, super down to eggplant emoji with you.” 

Yuuri rolled his eyes, “Truly, you have a way with words.” 

“It’s a gift. Much like the gift I am now bestowing on you: you are hereby disinvited from dinner.” They waved their hands magnanimously. 

“What?” 

“You now have no plans. Invite Victor to something, then, invite him to something else. Then invite him back to his place. Not our place. I have to get up early.” 

“Oh. Um. You present a compelling argument.” Yuuri said seriously. “One day, I will return the favor.” 

“Gross. Please don’t.” Phichit wrinkled their nose delicately. 

“Right, sorry.” 

“Whatever,” Phichit winked at him before spinning him around and giving him a gentle shove back into the bar. “Now, get out there and tap that ass!” 

When Victor saw Yuuri sneaking back into the main room, he quickly turned his attention back to his phone. He didn’t want to be caught salivating over Yuuri the way Makkachin watched him eat steak. His stomach rumbled with the reminder of dinner. Yuuri was alone this time, and his neck still bore the fading remains of his blush. 

Yuuri walked up to him with a smile, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Um, so, it turns out that I don’t have plans for dinner?” It came out as a question. “So, um, we could grab something, you know, if you wanted to.” 

“I’d like that. Just let me get my things.” He gathered his instrument and backpack, swigged the last of his vodka while sketching a brief goodbye to his bandmates, who were ignoring him anyway, and returned to Yuuri's side as quickly as possible. 

It was good that he’d been fast, he thought, since Yuuri seemed to be having doubts. As Victor approached, he closed his eyes like he was trying to collect himself and said, “I’m sorry, you don’t have to. You’re probably tired. We don’t have to get dinner if you don’t want to…” 

Victor sighed. “Yuuri, I didn’t think I could be much more obvious, but I would love to have dinner with you. I would love to do a million other things with you, but dinner seems like as good a place as any to start.” 

“Oh,” Yuuri said, startled out of his monologue. “That’s good, then. Let’s go.” He turned with an adorable look of determination and led the way outside, Victor trailing behind him. On the sidewalk, Yuuri paused. 

“Um.” 

“I was going to go to Mona’s, unless you had something else in mind.” Yuuri shook his head. “It’s on Frenchmen, if you don’t mind walking with me.” Yuuri nodded and followed Victor’s lead. As they walked, Victor couldn’t help but ask, “Did you really think I would say no?” 

Yuuri looked down, “I wasn’t sure. I thought you seemed like you, you know, liked me, but it kind of seems like you flirt with everyone. Victor, I’ve seen you flirt with the lucky button lady at the library.” 

“Well, I would have thought it was fairly obvious that she isn’t my type.” 

“How should I know what your type is? The person I see you with the most is Yurio. You don’t have something going with Yurio, right?” 

“What? That’s...wait.” Oh dear, that would be well, morally questionable. “Yuuri, why would you think that?” 

Yuuri blushed, “I’m sorry, he was at your house, you brought him to the recital. There’s obviously some sort of relationship there, and I’m not real interested in being a third.” 

“Oh god, no, no, no! You thought that me and Yurio...” Victor paused for a breath and to modulate his voice down from the squeak it had become. “Uh, yeah, no, there’s nothing like that between us. To begin with, he’s, like, 19, I think, and I know some people love that whole barely legal thing but, no, just no.” 

Yuuri nodded, “Good, then. I won’t lie, that would have been kind of creepy. Even more so than dragging an inebriated stranger home.” 

Victor covered his eyes with his hand, “Ugh, that probably was, well, not my wisest decision. In my defense, you wouldn’t tell me where you lived and it seemed safer than leaving you at the bar.” He peeked out between his fingers and was relieved to see Yuuri suppressing a small smile. “Anyway, no, I don’t have a thing for taking advantage of impressionable youths. Yurio is -” Friend? Annoying brother figure? “My dog-sitter.” 

“I know.” 

“Oh, I’ve got it!” Victor snapped his fingers, “He is my youthful ward, like Bruce Wayne and, uh, what’s Robin’s real name?” 

“Er, Dick Grayson.” 

“Mm.” Victor nodded. 

“That’s not very comforting, Victor. I’ve seen Sweeney Todd. I know all about youthful wards and their, uh, warders.” 

“Wardens?” 

“Warditos?” Yuuri had paused and was looking at Victor with a teasing smile. 

“Wardettini.” 

“I'm out of diminutives,” Yuuri frowned. Victor, of course, had a million diminutives, and had to shake himself out of a fantasy of teaching Yuuri all of them when Yuuri’s shoulder jostled against his own. “Sorry,” Yuuri murmured, but he didn’t pull back. 

Victor sought out Yuuri's hand with his own and interlaced their fingers. “I don’t mind.” 

At the restaurant, they ordered far too much food, and continued their conversation over sharp bites of tabbouleh and creamy baba ghanoush. 

“I should thank you,” Victor said as Yuuri bit into a piece of kibbeh. 

“Sorry,” Yuuri mumbled around the mouthful. He swallowed, washed it down with a sip of mint tea, and said, “What are you thanking me for?” 

“For inspiring me,” Victor grimaced, realizing how intense that sounded. He was already over-invested, he knew that, but he had years of experience of what happened when he let his partners in on that secret. “I had fun tonight. For the first time in a while, I really enjoyed making music and, honestly, I don’t know if I would have gone to the effort if I hadn’t met you.” 

“Oh. I’m glad I did something right.” Yuuri set down the kibbeh and wiped the grease from his fingers. He’d gone serious, and seemed unwilling to meet Victor’s eyes. “Actually, I need to apologize.” Victor braced himself for the coming rejection. “You - you’ve been very kind to me, and you’ve been very patient with all of my,” Yuuri fluttered his hand next to his head, and Victor just waited for the inevitable ‘but.’ Yuuri collected himself and went on, frowning slightly. “But -” there it was. Victor wanted to interrupt, didn’t want to hear it out loud, but he held his tongue. “I haven’t been at my best. You must think I’m the worst sort of…” He frowned and bit his lip, stealing a glance up. “I don’t want you to think that I’m playing with your feelings.” 

“I didn’t think that. I thought that I had maybe misinterpreted things. I am guilty of painful enthusiasm.” Victor swallowed a lump in his throat. “I’ve had a history of, maybe wishful thinking is the right word? Anyway, I’ve been told that I’m too much, too needy. It’s usually shouted at me by someone on their way out. I tend to think that things mean more than they do. It’s okay that you don’t feel the same way.” 

Yuuri's head jerked up and he narrowed his eyes. “Of course that’s how it would sound.” He sighed. “The problem isn’t that I don’t feel something for you. The problem is that I feel too much. Way too much, especially when I remember that I’ve only talked to you a handful of times. Victor, I want -” He cut himself off abruptly, as if suddenly realizing what he had said or what he was going to say, Victor wasn’t sure, but he really wanted to hear the end of that sentence. Yuuri's cheeks were pink as he took a long sip of his tea. “I’m sorry,” he said, after a moment. “That was a bit intense.” 

Victor cleared his throat and reached for his water. “Okay, then. You are definitely going to finish that sentence later.” He leaned forward, feeling a faintly predatory smile spread across his face. He laid his hand over Yuuri's, “I like you intense. I like you -” he fluttered his other hand next to his head like Yuuri had, “I like you anyway I can have you. So, please, let me. Let me like you.” 

Yuuri was perfectly still for a long moment then he moved his hand, grabbing Victor’s. “I think that we are finally on the same page,” he said, leaning across the table, eyes drawing Victor to lean toward him in response. “So, what should we do about it?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Round Midnight - Thelonius Monk and Gerry Mulligan


	9. Why not take all of me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nice dinner out, and a quiet evening at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The world's on fire, and you can tell because Henry is posting smut. 
> 
> if you wish to avoid this, you should skip from _“I’m sorry,” Victor giggled, “Shall we go somewhere more private?”_ to _Freshly showered and wearing borrowed flannel pants ..._
> 
> If you choose to skip this chapter entirely, you won't miss too much in terms of plot.

They left the restaurant in a comedic rush, Victor practically flinging his debit card at the cashier in his haste. They tumbled onto the sidewalk in a flurry of guitar and to-go bags.

“Your place?” Yuuri suggested. “Is your dog-sitter there?” 

“Yes, please, my place. No, no dog-sitter,” Victor laughed. “Do you mind walking?” 

“Could we run instead?” 

Victor led the way out of the Quarter at a run, guitar case banging against his leg. At the boundary between the Quarter and the Bywater, they paused on the neutral ground, laughing breathlessly while Victor tied a shoelace. He stood again and picked up his guitar and the bag of leftovers that he set down beneath a magnolia. Yuuri was watching him with an indecipherable expression. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Yuuri stepped close, his face intent. Victor found himself giving way before the shorter man until he bumped into the trunk of the tree, making its large leaves clatter above him. Yuuri reached his free hand behind Victor’s head and pulled him sharply forward, rising on his toes to meet Victor’s lips with his own. All of Yuuri’s uncertainty must have been soothed by their conversation, because there was no hesitation in this kiss. Victor thought he might suffocate. He was drowning in Yuuri, in the press and give of his lips and the warmth of his body where his chest pressed against Victor’s. 

Yuuri broke the kiss, settling back to his heels and trailing his fingertips from where they had clutched Victor’s neck along his jaw and down 

his chest. “I was saying something earlier -” “Yes. There was something you wanted, if memory serves.” 

A streetlight caught Yuuri's eyes, making them sparkle a warm bronze. His hand had stopped, fingers splayed over his abdomen. He hooked his index finger into Victor’s belt and jerked him sharply forward. Victor stumbled slightly. Yuuri continued in a chiding voice, “Don’t interrupt: this is important.” His voice was soft and thoughtful. Victor strained to hear. He didn’t want to miss a single word. “I want to lose myself in you. I want to forget how to feel anything else.” 

Victor let out a pathetic sound and let his head thunk against the tree trunk. The black branches spread above him and he could see the flash of an airplane passing over. He looked back at Yuuri who was watching him with a smug smile. “Yuuri, you are going to kill me. I am literally going to die.” 

“Oh dear. I wouldn’t want you to die.” He licked his lips and stepped forward. “If it’s as bad as that, I suppose I could provide some emergency assistance.” He was toying with the buckle of Victor’s belt when a burst of voices from Port of Call brought reality back into sharp focus. Yuuri's face pinched, like he’d tasted something sour, and he stepped back, looking regretful. “Or not,” he murmured. “Well, come on,” he said briskly, switching the bag of leftovers from one hand to the other. “Please, tell me you don’t live far.” 

  
  


Fortunately, Victor was incorrect, and neither of them actually literally died during the rest of the short walk. Yuuri didn’t think of himself as a particularly confident person, sexually or otherwise, but he had always been a physical sort of person. Conversation, wondering whether he was saying the right thing, using the right word, was hard enough at home, never mind in a new city, a new country. Movement was real, though, and bodies were something he could understand. There was a fierce pleasure in seeing the effect he had on Victor. He watched him fumble, cursing, with the lock of his door, eagerness making his nimble fingers clumsy. The last time Yuuri had been in Victor’s home, he’d been far too hungover and distressed to take it in, but now he looked around curiously. 

The small front yard was a riot of palmettos and cycads that screened the small house from the street. The front porch was really just a block of cement in front of the door but it was still cluttered with a village of potted plants, mostly succulents, but Yuuri spotted some culinary herbs as well. 

After a few minutes of swearing and dropped keys, Victor got the door open, and ushered Yuuri inside where he was promptly bowled over by a dog. 

“Makka, no! We don’t jump!” Victor scolded, while the poodle continued to prove him wrong by leaping for the bag that Yuuri held out of reach from where he sprawled on the floor. Victor hurriedly set his guitar on the squishy chair by the door, then retrieved the food from Yuuri's waving hands, which left him free to properly greet the dog. While he rubbed her belly, he looked around. The long front room was painted a rich green, but it was hard to tell since almost every inch of wall space was covered in either art or bookshelves. The floor looked like reclaimed cypress and was warmed with a colorful wool rug. At the back of the room a wide counter with what looked like an industrial stove top in it divided the kitchen from the rest of the room. 

“Yuuri, meet Makkachin, Makkachin: Yuuri,” Victor said with a pleased smile, returning from the kitchen. Yuuri looked up at him, feeling warm all over. Makka seemed to sense the change in the air. She gave Yuuri's face a lick and looked at Victor for approval. “Good girl,” he said, giving her ears a scratch, “Come on, girl, let’s go out.” 

“Bathroom?” Yuuri asked, setting his shoes next to the door. Victor pointed as he followed Makkachin to the back of the house. 

Yuuri freshened up as well as he could, brushing his teeth with his forefinger and splashing water over his face. He rummaged a bit, just enough to find some nail clippers. He didn’t dwell on his reflection, he knew what he looked like, with the round cheeks that made him look too young and the blush that didn’t let him hide anything. When he was with Victor he felt beautiful, and it made him brave. The last thing he wanted right now was a reminder of his painful ordinariness. He wanted to maintain the belief, fragile though it was, that someone - that Victor - might think he was special. When stepped into the hall, he could still hear Victor outside, talking softly to Makkachin in Russian. He smiled and walked back to the front room, entertaining himself by flipping through Victor’s record collection. He selected a Nina Simone album and set it on the turntable before sitting on the floor to poke through the rest. After a few moments, Makkachin ran over and stuck her cold nose in his ear before trotting to the battered leather couch and plopping down with a huff. He heard Victor laugh and looked over his shoulder. 

“My turn,” he said apologetically, disappearing into the bathroom. Yuuri nodded and returned to his snooping. He was reading the liner notes of a recording of Die Zauberflöte when Victor came to stand next to him. He extended a hand and Yuuri let himself be pulled to his feet. “I didn’t get a chance to give you the tour, last time.” 

Yuuri was sure that it was a very nice home, but it would have been difficult to pinpoint anything he was less interested in. “Victor,” he pouted, stepping close, “Aren’t you going to make me breakfast again?” 

He could see the muscles work in Victor’s throat as he swallowed. “I would like to do that, yes.” 

“Then the tour can wait for the morning.” He tipped his face up and smiled. Victor didn’t refuse the invitation. He bent for a kiss, wrapping long arms around Yuuri's waist and pressing their bodies together. Yuuri's desire had been honed to a sharp edge over the evening, and he moaned with the relief of finally holding and being held, giving himself over to movement and touch. Nina was singing ‘Feeling Good,’ and Yuuri's hips started to sway without his conscious decision. He pressed his nose against Victor’s neck, smelling a hint of cologne and the scent of sweat. He darted his tongue out to taste the soft skin, and Victor gasped out a laugh. Makkachin let out a sudden “whuff” from the couch, and Yuuri dissolved into laughter. 

“I’m sorry,” Victor giggled, “Shall we go somewhere more private?” He took Yuuri's hands and held them to his lips, kissing the knuckles as he walked backwards into the bedroom. Victor reached toward the light switch, then paused and moved instead to a lamp on the bedside table. He switched it on, and a warm glow filled the room. Yuuri reached for him, tugging Victor’s shirt from his waistband to reach the soft skin of his abdomen. Victor gasped. “Your hands are cold,” he explained with a laugh. “How are your hands cold?” 

Yuuri shrugged and pulled himself closer to Victor, pushing his shirt up over his head. He paused, with it over Victor’s face, and while he struggled to free himself, Yuuri bent to kiss his chest, pausing to lick one nipple into a stiff point. He trailed his fingers along Victor’s ribs, watching goosebumps rise in their wake, and teased at the light dusting of pale hair across his pecs. Victor had, by now, freed himself from the t-shirt, and was watching Yuuri's exploration with a hunger in his gaze that even Yuuri's imposter syndrome couldn’t misinterpret. He reached out to touch Yuuri's cheek, running his thumb along the rise of his cheekbone. Yuuri leaned into the touch with a sigh. He stepped back, just a bit and, watching Victor’s face, began to draw his own shirt over his head. 

“Wait -” Victor interjected, reaching out again and plucking his glasses from his face, setting them safely on the bedside table. “Carry on,” he said, with a nod. 

Yuuri had intended to draw it out a bit more, to tease a little, but he was impatient to feel Victor’s skin against his, so he simply pulled off his shirt, tossing it onto the trunk at the foot of the bed. Victor’s hands were instantly on him, exploring his ribs, tracing his muscles with clever fingers. It made Yuuri shiver even as each touch tightened the hot coil of anticipation in his belly. They were kissing again, but Yuuri couldn’t remember who had started it this time. His world narrowed to the sensation of hot soft skin against his chest, to the soft give of Victor’s lips and the rough scrape of stubble against his lips, his cheek, his neck. He tipped his head back, gasping, and fumbled with Victor’s belt as Victor was reaching for his. It was awkward and a bit silly, losing their balance, stumbling into each other because they refused to break the kiss. Yuuri could feel Victor’s lips tighten over his teeth as he smiled and he gasped a laugh in response. Yuuri pushed Victor to lean against the side of the bed, kicking the jumble of pants and belts aside. Victor hitched one leg around Yuuri's waist, drawing him even closer. 

Victor seemed to have found a place he was happy, kissing and sucking at the juncture of Yuuri's neck and shoulder, rubbing his cock against Yuuri's hip. Even through the thin fabric of Victor’s boxers, he could feel the sticky wetness smearing against his skin. Yuuri reached down, sliding his fingers through the fly of his shorts, Victor groaned, biting down on Yuuri's shoulder and thrusting helplessly against his hand. The sound pulled an answering sigh from Yuuri. It still wasn’t enough. Yuuri felt like he would never get enough of this: enough of these touches, enough of the sounds Victor made, enough of the way his eyes slid shut as he gave in to Yuuri's touch. He felt like he would never get enough of this man. 

He stepped back, kissing his way down Victor’s body, tasting the salt of his sweat, enjoying the muscles of Victor’s torso flexing beneath his hands. He paused and ran his thumb along the line where the muscles of his abdomen met his hip flexors. 

“What do you call this?” 

Victor jerked his head up, “What?” he asked. 

“This -” Yuuri stroked again, making the muscles jump and quiver, “I never know what to call this. I mean, I know the anatomical name, but…” 

“What is it?” 

“It’s called the iliac furrow,” he said matter of factly, still drifting his fingers along the trough of muscle, letting his thumbs hook into the waistband of Victor’s boxers, pulling them down. He knelt and looked up to see Victor’s eyes widen as he watched Yuri. He stroked again, “The other term I’ve heard is ‘cum gutters,’ but that’s an ugly name for a beautiful feature, don’t you think?” He let his hand continue its exploration, briefly travelling the length of Victor’s cock, then drawing a finger along the crinkled skin of his sack before gently cupping his balls. “Victor?” 

“Oh god, Yuuri, please.” Yuuri leaned forward, flicking his tongue out to taste Victor. He must have washed up earlier; there was a scent of soap lingering around the tightly curled hairs that were just a bit darker than those on his head. He lapped along the underside of Victor’s shaft before taking him all the way in, as deeply as he could. Victor hips jerked and Yuuri gagged slightly. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Victor panted, “Are you okay?” Yuuri just waited until Victor looked at him, and then slowly, deliberately, took him in all the way in, letting his throat relax. Victor’s eyes widened, “You’re magic, aren’t you? I knew you were magic.” Yuuri tried to smirk, but it was hard to do with a cock in his mouth, so he just winked. Victor grinned and reached down to run his fingers through Yuuri's hair, gently caressing his scalp. When Victor started to tremble with the effort of holding himself still, Yuuri released him and stood, stripping off his boxer briefs. He took himself in hand, stroking with long firm strokes. He was so hard that the relief when he finally touched himself was almost painful. 

“What do you want, Victor?” 

“Yuuri, please,” Victor scooted back on the bed, cock bouncing against his stomach, “I just want you close to me.” 

There were a lot of ways that could happen, but before Yuuri could spiral, thinking about all the different options, he looked at Victor. There was need, more vulnerable than Yuuri had ever seen it. “Of course,” he murmured, climbing into bed next to Victor. In no time, their bodies were pressed against each other again, hands and arms safe around each other. 

Victor shifted, one thigh sliding between Yuuri’s. He groaned at the contact, unable to stop himself from rubbing himself against Victor’s body. He could feel the hard length of Victor’s cock beside his own, and reach between them, holding them together, both of them leaking enough to slick his hand as he held them loosely together. 

He was close to the edge already and from the way Victor was moving against him, thrusting unrhythmically, muscles in his thighs clenching and quivering, Victor was _there_. “Oh god, Yuuri, I’m - I’m gonna -” he stammered, tensing suddenly, and spilling over their hands. Victor’s encouraging murmurs pulled Yuuri from the ledge he was so precariously balanced on. His own orgasm unfurled from his balls, pulling itself from him, pouring his pleasure into the space between their bodies. 

When he could think again, Victor was stroking his hair and whispering something softly. Yuuri slid his arms around his waist and squeezed, ignoring the sticky mess between them. His eyelids were suddenly heavy, and he realized that there was a very serious risk of falling asleep like this. He frowned and tried to sit up, but he found himself held in place, Victor’s legs still wrapped around him. He moved again, but Victor did not release him. He tilted his head to look at Victor. His eyes were closed and his face still, but when Yuuri tried to move again, he saw Victor’s lips quirk in a half smile that was quickly suppressed. 

“Victor? Let me up, please.” He tried again. “Victor,” he whined, “You’re all sticky!” 

“You like it.” He wiggled his belly beneath Yuri, making the mess bigger. 

Yuuri sighed and let himself be held close because, as gross and sweaty and sticky as they were, he did. 

  
~  


Victor woke to bright sunlight and a sound of running water. He rolled toward the still warm place at the other side of the bed, burying his face in the pillow that held his scent. He had been afraid, in a way that he hadn’t even admitted to himself, that Yuuri would disappear with the night. He stretched sleepily; his limbs still loose with sleep. It was late, if the quantity of clear light streaming through the blinds was any indication. Victor was usually up before the sun, knocking out a run before it got too hot, but he supposed that last night had been enough cardio for the day. 

The water shut off, and Victor rolled to his back, and closed his eyes, trying to look inviting. It must have worked because Yuuri climbed back into bed next to him, curling up against his side. 

“Good morning,” Yuuri murmured. 

Victor responded with a loud snore. Yuuri slapped a hand over his mouth and nose. Victor caught a faint whiff of poodle and laughed against Yuuri's palm, abandoning his pretense and opening his eyes. “You smell like dog.” 

Yuuri jerked his hand back, blushing. Victor traced the soft pink of his cheeks with his thumb. “Sorry, Makkachin wanted to say hi.” 

“I love it,” Victor said, “Being nice to my dog is a huge turn-on.” 

“Is that so?” Yuuri replied dryly. “Is that what this is about, then?” He reached down to caress Victor. He was somehow already hard and hadn’t even noticed. He felt the tips of his ears warm as Yuuri nestled closer and Victor became aware of Yuuri's own erection against his thigh. 

“Mmm. What a nice way to wake up.” 

Yuuri sat up, frowning a little, “Don’t get used to it. I’m usually dead to the world until after ten unless I set an alarm.” He slung a leg over Victor’s thighs, rubbing his cock against Victor’s. “I think I deserve a reward for waking up so early.” 

Victor cleared his throat, “Take pity on an old man, Yuri. I may need a day to recover.” 

Yuuri leaned forward to kiss the tip of his nose. “Don’t worry, geezer. I’ll do all the work.” 

Yuuri was true to his word, riding Victor until his world narrowed to the sensation of Yuuri's body around his own, shuddering and clenching on his cock. Victor couldn’t do anything except hold on to his thighs, feeling those strong dancer muscles flex as he smoothly fucked himself with Victor’s body. Yuuri came, waves of constriction bringing Victor to the very edge of orgasm, but it wasn’t until Yuuri leaned forward and gently kissed his lips, that he let go, following Yuuri with a gasp, hips pumping an irregular rhythm. 

Yuuri stayed where he was for a moment. His face was calm, but Victor could see that he was still breathing heavily in the expansion of his rib cage. 

“Have I told you that you’re beautiful?” Victor asked, still breathless. 

“You might have, but I don’t mind if you say it again,” Yuuri looked down, “I don’t know that I’m anything special, though.” 

Victor choked, then winced as he slid out of Yuuri, who just smirked. “‘Not anything special,’ he says. This man who made me cum so hard I forgot my own name, then woke me up - _already slick and ready_ , I might add - to do that,” he gestured helplessly between them, “again, and the man says he’s ‘not anything special.’” 

Yuuri looked toward the window. The sun picked out a few highlights of coppery brown in his bangs. “I think you’ve somehow confused horniness with beauty.” He eased himself off of Victor’s thighs, grimacing at the stickiness, “Help me clean up?” Victor was already following him, pausing only to dispose of the condom. 

Freshly showered and wearing borrowed flannel pants slung low around his hips, Yuuri perched on a stool at the counter, drinking coffee and watching Victor rummage in his fridge. 

“What do you think? I could do a frittata or some grits, I might have some frozen shrimp…” 

“You must really like to cook,” Yuuri commented. “If we were at my place, your options would be Cheerios or Grape-nuts, and the dairy free milk of your choice.” 

“No dairy?” 

“Lactose intolerant. You don’t want to know what happens.” 

“Good to know,” Victor may have been planning what he would make if he could cook dinner for Yuuri. “Any other dietary restrictions?” 

“Not really. Obviously, I have to watch what I eat. I’ve already put on some weight since I moved here. Most of the time I just have, like chicken or something and I steam some vegetables with my rice.” 

“Wow, that sounds,” soul-crushingly boring, “really healthy.” Definitely a frittata, with some roasted red pepper and oil cured olives, and feta - wait, no, skip the feta - and a little thyme. He turned on the oven to preheat and got out his favorite cast-iron pan, the big square one that he had been working on since he rescued it from the Bargain Store. He had finally gotten it perfectly seasoned. He still had some green tomatoes from the farmers market, maybe he could fry some, or would that be too much? Yuuri mentioned watching what he ate… “Could you hand me that garlic?” He nodded to the hanging basket. 

Yuuri reached up and plucked out a bulb, handing it to Victor. “Anything else I can help with?” 

“Um, I think I’m okay - Oh, would you mind? I have some thyme out front. Could you clip me a couple of sprigs?” He held out a small pair of shears. 

“Yeah, okay! I can definitely do that.” Yuuri nodded determinedly, as if he’d been asked to wrestle a shark or something similarly hazardous. He took the shears and disappeared through the front door. 

Victor was engrossed in charring his peppers over the burner when it suddenly occurred to him that Yuuri had been gone an awfully long time. Had he somehow locked himself out? This wasn’t the best neighborhood, but it wasn’t so bad that harvesting herbs from your own yard should have been risky. He tossed the peppers in a paper bag to steam and was about to check on Yuuri when he returned, triumphantly holding a single sprig of thyme. 

He handed it to Victor, settling himself back on the stool. Victor looked at him curiously, but didn’t comment. 

After a moment of heavy silence, Yuuri said, “I got out there, and I realized I didn’t know what thyme looked like. So I thought, maybe I should just smell things.” His cheeks were getting redder as he spoke. “Then I realized that I don’t actually know what thyme smells like.” 

Oh. “Um, well, you guessed right!” Victor said, hoping he sounded encouraging and not condescending. 

“I didn’t guess. I Googled it.” 

Victor snorted, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh.” A giggle escaped, despite his best intentions. “But you could have just asked, Yuuri. 

Yuuri looked at him doubtfully. “You would have laughed at me.” 

“I promise that, despite my current behavior, I would not have made fun of you.” He forced his mouth into a sincere line. “The image of you frantically Googling in your, er, my pajamas is the part that’s funny, not that you didn’t know what it looked like.” 

Yuuri crossed his arms and looked offended. 

“I’m sorry, Yuuri. Please say you’ll forgive me?” He leaned across the counter with what he hoped was a contrite expression. He hoped that Yuuri appreciated that he was giving himself wrinkles with his dramatically furrowed brow. Yuuri sniffed and lifted his chin belligerently. Victor exaggerated his pout and leaned over further. 

Finally Yuuri cracked, rolling his eyes and smiling. He leaned forward and bestowed a lingering kiss on Victor. “Fine, you’re forgiven,” he said, still close enough that his lips were moving against Victor’s, as soft as something less clichéd than feathers. “Your shirt might be on fire.” He sat back and sipped his coffee. Victor looked down and yelped, leaping back from the stove and tearing off his t-shirt. The fabric was hot, and there was perhaps a faint browning of the cotton, but he was otherwise unscathed. He shrugged and slung the shirt over his shoulder with a wink that earned him yet another faint blush. 

“Do you still want to help?” Victor offered, noticing that Yuuri looked a little bit uncomfortable. When Yuuri nodded, looking relieved, he handed over a cutting board and the bag of peppers. “Here - these should be cool enough to handle. Just kinda peel the skin off. It’s usually pretty easy if you start from a spot that’s blistered.” 

Yuuri opened that bag and pulled out a pepper, looking at it with interest. He set to the task with single minded focus and held up one of his écorchéd peppers for Victor’s approval, “Like this?” 

Victor nodded, “Perfecto. Here, you can slice them into strips when you’re done with that, just pull the seeds out first, and put them in here,” he handed over a bowl for the scraps. 

Yuuri did as instructed, slicing the peppers neatly, if slowly. It was nice, this easy domesticity. It would be so easy to fall for Yuri, to tumble head over heart in love. It certainly wasn’t worth the energy to hold his heart back. Yuuri plucked up one of his strips of pepper and tasted it, the soft red morsel disappearing behind his full lips, his eyes closed in thought. When he opened them, he caught Victor watching and returned the look curiously. Victor’s neck warmed as he returned to chopping the garlic. 

After breakfast, Victor excused himself to let Makkachin out. He stood on his small deck, watching Makkachin bark at a squirrel and filling his birdfeeder while he waited for her to do her business. Finally, he coaxed her back inside, wondering if he could talk Yuuri into coming along on a walk with them. He knew that Yuuri would eventually have to go home, and that he would have to go to work, and that their lives would somehow go back to normal. He plucked an eyelash from his cheek, pinching it between thumb and forefinger, making a wish before his breath carried it off to wherever wishes went. _Let me_ _become a part of his normal._

Makkachin finally sniffed her fill and nosed at his hand to tell him it was time to go back inside. She led the way to the kitchen, probably hoping for a treat. A clatter of dishes made Victor smile. Yuuri must have started cleaning up. The mental picture was adorable, because in his mind Yuuri had somehow acquired a frilly apron and elbow length yellow rubber gloves. Victor didn’t own either of these items and was a little concerned about the specificity of the image. Did he have an unexplored housekeeper kink? 

Yuuri had finished with the plates, and was running water over his skillet, humming softly. Time slowed as he reached for the bottle of dish soap. An inhuman sound ripped from Victor’s throat as he lunged for Yuuri, knocking him away from the sink and grabbing his beloved skillet. He cradled it gently to his chest. 

Yuuri gave him an appalled look. “What is wrong with you?” 

Victor half-turned, casting a venomous look over his shoulder, caressing the black metal, running his fingers over the surface. Soap-free - thank god, he had been fast enough. Yuuri's expression had softened from shock to incredulous amusement. “I’m so sorry, baby -” 

“Um, that’s okay, but -” 

“Not you!” Victor hissed at Yuuri before turning back to his pan to croon, “Are you okay darling? Did the bad man hurt you?” 

“Victor, you’re getting grease all over yourself,” Yuuri commented, sipping his coffee. 

“Oh, right.” Victor turned back around, and scoured out the skillet in the sink, applying a fresh coat of oil and placed it in the still-warm oven to dry. 

Yuuri watched the process with interest. “So, dare I ask what that was about?” 

“Never, NEVER, use soap on cast iron. That is all you need to know.” Dimly, Victor realized that he sounded unhinged. 

“Are you always this dramatic?” Yuuri asked. 

“Yes, definitely, one-hundred percent.” Victor said firmly, but with a tentative smile. “Do you mind too much?” 

Yuuri looked thoughtful. “I don’t think so,” he said eventually, “I mean, you startled me, but I like the way you get excited about things.” 

“Oh?” Victor asked, stepping close, “I bet you can think of something that would excite me.” 

“Um,” Yuuri croaked, as Victor leaned over him, bending him back over the counter. 

“Yes? What did you think of, just now?” 

“You," Yuuri swallowed, "you’re getting grease everywhere.” 

Oh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of Me - Willie Nelson.
> 
> playlist is here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5pISUptxkSwfKSD76kQkdF


	10. Mr. Ghost Goes to Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is nothing that Yuuri Katsuki loves more than socializing with a large crowd of complete strangers. Hang on...that's not right...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm still here, and feeling mildly guilty about updating with a heavy chapter after disappearing. Although, let's be real, if you don't like heavy, you probably avoid my fics like the plague. I'm probably going to have to stop using that expression, aren't I? Change of Seasons is the exception (the metal is the heaviest thing in that fic).
> 
> see content notes at the end if you have concerns.

“Hey, Yuuri, what are you going to wear for Halloween?”

“What?” 

Phichit rolled their eyes. “Halloween? The only good American holiday? Candy, scary movies, costumes: what is yours?” 

“Oh, I hadn’t really thought about it. Aren’t we kind of old for that?” 

“Yuuri!” Phichit gasped, “You shut your lying mouth!” They were walking backwards ahead of Yuuri, hands tucked into the pockets of the blaze-orange hoodie they had insisted on buying during a recent trip to the feed store out on Jefferson. At least Yuuri had talked them out of the silkie chickens they had wanted to adopt. Rosie had accepted the existence of the hamsters gracefully but Yuuri suspected that chickens might be a different scenario. “Besides, we live in New Orleans, now. This city will take any excuse to get fancy and fucked up.” 

“Well, I don’t really have anything planned.” 

“What, no hot date with Victor? What about a return engagement at the Oz?” They were teasing, and Yuuri wanted to find it as funny as everyone else seemed to, he really did, but it was hard to summon much amusement when he felt so out of control. Something must have shown on his face, because Phichit changed the subject. “Sorry,” they dropped back to walk beside Yuuri. “One of my friends from the scene shop works at Zeitgeist, you know, that experimental theater? Anyway, she says they’re having a Halloween shindig. B-movie marathon, costume contest, drinks, popcorn. I was thinking about going. I was trying to subtly steer the conversation to inviting you, but if you had a hot date planned, I didn’t want to make you feel bad about saying no.” They spun around and fell into step beside Yuuri. 

“We actually haven’t talked about it.” Yuuri found himself frowning thoughtfully. “Come to think about it, we haven’t talked about much.” 

“Uh huh,” Phichit said, their smirk audible. “I understand. Too busy to talk, I suppose.” 

“Not like that!” Yuuri squawked, even though it was at least a little bit like that. “No, we just haven’t had a serious ‘what are we doing here’ conversation yet, which is fine.” 

“Fine, uh-huh, sure.” 

“Yes, Phichit. It’s fine. We’re keeping it light.” 

“Uh, I hate to point this out, Yuuri, but in the, what, three months we’ve lived together, I may have noticed that you are not really a ‘keep things light’ guy.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“I’m not saying you’re Mr. Commitment Man, and that you need to figure out which French Immersion Preschool you’re going to send your future puppies to, but I can’t see you being content to leave it undefined. Even if the definition turns out to be that you just get together and fuck sometimes and that’s all it is.” They elbowed Yuuri gently, “How long would it take you to text him and find out what he was doing for Halloween?” 

Yuuri wanted to disagree, but he really couldn’t. Phichit was right. Yuuri had somehow given Victor the impression that he was cool and fun, and not an absolute mess who barely got through most days without dissolving into a puddle of panic and tears on the nearest flat surface. It was nice to play the part of the confident, sexy guy for a change, but Yuuri knew that he would screw it up sooner or later. Probably sooner. Who could really blame him for holding part of himself back? He needed to keep a chunk of his heart out of harm’s way. 

“I would spend at least an hour typing and erasing and re-typing messages, before leaving it unsent for another four hours while I spiraled about whether or not we have a holiday party kind of relationship.” He sighed. “Maybe you have a point.” 

They walked in silence for a bit. “I’m not saying you have to figure it out now, you know. Just don’t assume that the two of you are on the same page until you know that you actually are. Besides, Halloween isn’t for heavy conversations. It’s for stupid sexy costumes and sugar and fun.” 

Okay, fine. Yuuri could do stupid sexy fun. He might even be good at it. There was absolutely no problem.

Victor had been absolutely over the moon about the idea and maybe Yuuri should have expected that. He’d replied to Yuuri's text invitation with a string of emojis that seemed affirmative, even if Yuuri couldn’t figure out what a can of tomato sauce had to do with anything. 

Predictably, Yuuri spent the whole week obsessing over potential costumes, rather than actually doing anything constructive to plan an actual physical costume. He could have enlisted Phichit’s help, of course, but then, he knew that Phichit would have actually _helped_ , likely at the expense of their own costume, and Yuuri didn’t want that. In desperation, he decided to recycle an old costume. It was from a ballet interpretation of the Little Prince, in which Yuuri had portrayed the fox. Yuuri had just finished dressing and was fiddling with the straps of his mask when he heard a car pull up outside. In a fit of bravery, Yuuri had invited Victor to their apartment so that they could share a Lyft to the theater. Phichit was still putting the finishing touches on their outfit, so Yuuri went out to say hello. 

“Oh, hello, Yuuri!” 

Yuuri's shoulders rose as he startled. “Hi, Miss Rosie,” he said, looking up the staircase to his neighbor, who was sitting on her porch, cat in lap and glass of iced tea nearby. His costume had seemed like a great idea when he pictured wearing it in a dark party full of intoxicated revelers or maybe even in front of his boyfriend - was that even the right word? - but in front of his elderly landlady, the velour bodysuit suddenly felt almost indecent. 

“Yuuri!” Victor had emerged from the station wagon wearing the loudest suit and skinniest tie that Yuuri had ever seen. He had slicked his hair back and drawn a skinny mustache immediately over his upper lip. He pulled out a plastic flamingo from behind his back with a flourish and Yuuri groaned. “Hello!” He waved brightly at Rosie. 

“Hello! You must be a friend of Yuuri and Phichit?” 

“I’m Victor. It’s a pleasure to meet you!” 

“Call me Rosie,” she smiled, scooping up the cat who tried to sneak past her on the stairs. She paused, looking thoughtful. “I feel like I’ve met you before. What do you do?” 

“Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that. I’m a musician slash librarian. It’s not as glamorous as you might imagine.” 

“Oh, do you do weddings? There’s a lovely couple at my church who just announced their engagement.” 

Victor brightened, “From time to time.” Yuuri looked back and forth between the two of them with increasing skepticism. “Here, let me give you a card,” he trotted up the stairs, 

“You’re such a sweetheart.” She caught Yuuri's eye and gave him a wink, “I’m sorry dear, don’t let me keep you. It looks like you have big plans.” 

“Yes, Yuuri, I can’t wait to see your costume,” Victor said with absolute innocence. 

Yuuri waved at Rosie and escaped inside as quickly as he could, slamming the door behind himself as soon as Victor was inside. He leaned back against the closed door as Victor turned to look at him. “So, this is my place,” he gestured around, even though Victor was looking at him, not at the apartment, and smiling a little. The John Waters mustache turned it into a leer. “I can’t take much credit for it. Phichit did most of the decorating.” 

“It’s really nice,” Victor said, turning around. “You always see these apartments uptown, but I’ve never been inside of one.” He poked curiously around, examining the books on the shelves, and the framed prints on the walls. “Can I see your room?” 

“Sure, but I warn you, it’s pretty boring.” He opened the door, acutely aware of how spartan it seemed. There was nothing on the walls except for a large poster of Nureyev. Victor’s attention was immediately drawn to Yuuri's CD collection. Which was natural, since there wasn’t much else to look at, unless Victor had a very strange laundry fetish. They were a little bit of an anachronism, maybe. There was no real reason that Yuuri hadn’t just put all of his music on a thumbdrive and left the CDs in Japan, but he liked having them, liked being able to flip through the liner notes. It reminded him of sitting in his sister’s room as a kid, waiting breathlessly as she would open up her newest purchase and load it into her big purple boombox, of the ancient stereo system in Minako-sensei’s studio, the first place that he had learned to dance. 

“Ooh, cool, they’re all Japanese releases.” 

“Well, yes, Victor. What did you expect?” Victor had immediately plopped himself on the floor and was curiously flipping through the stack. 

"You could call me Vitya, if you wanted to," Victor said in the kind of casual tone that meant it was actually very important to him. 

"Vitya?" Yuuri tested the name. "Like, a nickname?" 

Victor shrugged. "You could say that. It's what the people who are close to me call me." He pulled a CD out of the stack and flipped it over, before putting it back and selecting another. 

“No Stammi Vicino?” Victor commented, a teasing tone in his voice. 

“Mm. I couldn’t bring my whole collection.” 

“And I didn’t make the cut?!” Victor exclaimed, “Yuuri, I’m offended!.” 

“Well, the fat royalty check you’ll get from Bandcamp will just have to salve your ego.” 

“It’s honestly kind of a relief. I was in the midst of an unfortunate fedora phase, and would rather you not have the evidence of my dark past to hand.” 

“Really? The Japanese release just has, like, a magnolia on the cover. I had no idea what you looked like. Honestly, I kind of pictured a much older guy. You know, grey hair, balding, everything.” He stood and made a big show of peering closely at the crown of Victor’s head, gently prodding it with his index finger as if checking something. Victor gasped and clutched at his head. 

“Is it really that thin? Yuri, you’d tell me, right?” 

“It’s fine, Vict - Vitya,” he sat on the edge of his bed, letting his knee drift against Victor’s shoulder. 

“Oh, Yuuri! You have wounded me!” He collapsed to the floor, covering his head, “I can’t believe that you would be so cruel.” 

“So this is what you two get up to,” Phichit commented, leaning against the frame of Yuuri's door. 

“Oh my god, Phichit!” Yuuri exclaimed, glad for a distraction. “You look amazing.” 

“Of course,” they said modestly, straightening the bright red wig with one hand. “If you seek an answer to the question ‘who is more glam than David Bowie?’ the only possible answer is Phichit Chulanont.” 

“Very impressive,” Victor agreed, standing up and straightening his garish jacket. 

“So, Yuuri, what are you?” 

Oh, right. “Yeah, I’m definitely the loser here. I just recycled an old ballet costume. Here, my mask is in the kitchen.” With a little help from Victor, he got the large fox head on. It made everything echo-y but there was a nice feeling of anonymity when he peered out through the eyeholes. He turned the mask to Victor, “You know the Little Prince, right? I’m the fox.. ” 

“One of my favorite books. ‘Tu deviens responsable pour toujours de ce que tu as apprivoisé’.” Victor's voice was warm and sweet and almost as intoxicating as the whiskey he’d sipped while he was dressing. He hadn’t known that Victor spoke French. 

“Are you planning to tame me?” Yuuri asked. 

Phichit cleared their throat. “Okay, guys, there are children present.” They looked at the clock. “C’mon, our ride will be here in ten minutes. It’s Instagram time.” ~~ 

Victor’s costume was, predictably, a huge hit with the movie buffs at the party, and he was immediately accosted by no less than three different Divines for selfies. Phichit was similarly popular, and was recruited for karaoke by some of their theatrical cohorts. Yuuri found himself standing awkwardly in the lobby, trailing after his more sociable friends. A detour to the bar revealed the flaw in his brilliant costume plan, but the problem was solved when the bartender offered him a straw long enough to sip through the neck-nole of the large papier-mâché fox head. 

It didn’t take too long for Yuuri to realize the other problem with his costume. Anonymity, it turned out, was a double-edged sword. Sure, he could drift along, mostly ignored and that was delightful. Other than Phichit and Victor, however, no one would recognize him, which meant that he would have to approach and initiate a conversation, if he wanted to talk to anyone. That, in turn, meant that he was pretty much doomed to trail forlornly behind his friends, lurking awkwardly on the outskirts of conversations. 

There was a large student contingent at the party. He passed Minami, who was impatiently explaining that, no, he was not James Bond, he was Fred Astaire from Royal Wedding, thank you very much. He recognized JJ, an annoying frat boy who was in Yuuri's Brazilian dance class for some unfathomable reason. Even worse, he was actually good. Like, really good. It was infuriating. He was dressed as Superman and, safe in his vulpine isolation chamber, Yuuri rolled his eyes as JJ posed dramatically for a pretty girl in a Wonder Woman costume. He felt like the moon, aloof and alone in his distant orbit. 

Victor’s voice caught Yuuri's attention through the muffling of the mask. This was getting old. “I brought you a drink,” he offered, “Scotch, right?” 

Yuuri actually hated scotch, but he was starting to feel a little bit more relaxed after his first drink. So he took the plastic cup and clicked it against Victor’s cup of something clear. Vodka, probably, that seemed like what a Russian was supposed to drink. 

“Well, kanpai, then.” He swallowed the cupful in a much larger gulp than he’d intended. 

“Za lyubov,” Victor toasted. His voice sounded a little, what? Serious, maybe. 

“I thought it was nostrovie?” 

“Sure, eef you are villain een Bond movie.” Victor teased and Yuuri laughed a little. 

“Well, Comrade, my cup runneth dry. Should we see what else is happening?” They waded into the sea of costumes. ~~ 

Victor, somehow, seemed to know everyone, and he tried, Yuuri could tell, but it wasn’t fair to expect him to bear the whole weight of Yuuri's awkwardness. He introduced Yuuri to as many people as he could, but Yuuri's head was swimming with faces and names, and he absolutely knew that there was no way he would recognize anyone if he saw them again. Yuuri wanted another drink, desperately, just for the security of something to hold. He watched Victor, who had finished his drink a half hour ago, but made no move to get another, even though he was stuck talking to a severe looking woman about “elsaps” and “outcome measures” and “mark records.” 

“Okay, see you Monday, Lilia!” He waved as she breezed off, Hogwart’s robes streaming behind her. “Sorry about that, Yuuri,” he slid an arm around Yuuri waist and tugged him close. “I’m sure that was deeply boring. Lilia’s my boss. She’s a Slytherin.” He said this as if those words meant anything other than that, surely, _now_ they would get another drink. But, no, now they were apparently going to sign themselves up for the costume contest. Then they were going to get on the list for karaoke. Victor was torn between “Jolene” and “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” They agreed on a duet of “I Want You (to want me).” At least Yuuri knew the lyrics to that one. 

“I’m gonna go find the bathroom,” he shouted in Victor’s ear over the applause for Phichit’s rendition of “Space Oddity.” 

“Ok!” 

“Do you want a drink?” 

“What?” 

“Never mind! I’ll be right back!” 

He wasn’t, though. On the way to the bathroom, he procured another whiskey, which he polished off immediately. The line for the bathroom was blessedly short, and Yuuri was glad that of all his costumes he’d at least had the foresight to select one that didn’t require him to completely strip in order to piss. On the way back he stopped at the bar again and grabbed another drink for himself, along with a vodka for Victor. 

The eyeholes limited Yuuri's peripheral vision, and the scotch limited his equilibrium, so when someone grabbed his ass, he all but stumbled into their arms. He relaxed quickly, pleased that Victor had found him, and swayed back into the touch. 

An unfamiliar voice filtered through the muffled party noise, “What are you supposed to be?” Yuuri froze. 

“Uh, I’m a fox,” he squeaked. 

Whoever it was laughed and leaned close. Yuuri could feel hot wet breath on his shoulder and the touch turned into a caress. Yuuri couldn’t breath. He needed to be somewhere else right now, needed to get the mask off, but he couldn’t do that because he didn’t want to see this person, didn’t want to risk it being someone he knew, didn’t want to see whoever it was again somewhere else and have to deal with knowing who this was. 

“Heh, damn right you is.” 

Yuuri yanked his shoulder back, earning himself a slap on the ass and another laugh as he shoved his way through a door, ignoring several grunts of disapproval as he pushed past the other partiers. 

He found himself in a darkened theater, the flickering light of a projector giving just enough light for Yuuri to find an empty seat in the back row. He yanked his mask off and made himself breath - in through the nose for four seconds, hold for seven, out through the mouth for eight - until his hands stopped shaking enough for him to drink his whiskey. Fuck it. Fuck all this. Fuck people, fucks friends, fuck fun, and fuck mother-fucking Halloween. He slammed Victor’s drink too, for good measure. Whatever. He should have been there. Somehow, magically, Victor was supposed to know what was happening, so fuck him, too. Yuuri folded his arms around himself and drew his feet up onto the seat. Robots were shooting lasers at teenagers on the screen, and finally, finally, Yuuri started to float away from himself a little, started to feel a pleasant numbness around his lips. 

A slice of light splintered across the aisle, and even though it seemed blindingly bright in the movie theater, Yuuri couldn’t mistake the silhouette of that tall slim figure in the world’s awfullest suit. He lifted an arm and gave Victor a tired sort of wave. 

“Hey,” he whispered cheerfully, as he took the seat next to Yuri. “I wondered where you’d disappeared to.” He glanced at the screen, “Ooh! Boobies!” 

“Yeah, those are definitely tits,” Yuuri leaned mumbled against his knees. He was having a little trouble focusing, so there were probably twice as many tits as there were supposed to be. 

“You okay?” 

“Oh, yeah, yes, definitely, no problem!” Yuuri replied, adding a thumbs up for emphasis and hoping that Victor would stop asking so many questions if Yuuri could just be emphatic enough. He could feel the horrible concern on Victor’s face even though it was dark and his eyes were glued to the screen. There sure were a lot of boobs in this movie. They were bouncing as the girls ran away from the robots and Yuuri felt a little seasick. 

Victor didn’t say anything for a second, and Yuuri felt, rather than saw, him shake his head. “Yuuri,” he started, but Yuuri didn’t want to hear the rest. He was going to ask questions, or worse, he would be sympathetic and understanding. Yuuri realized that he was grinding his teeth. _Fuck This_. 

He stood up and ignored the spinning of his head. He ignored Victor’s exclamation when he climbed over the back of his seat and walked out of the theater. He ignored Victor yelling his name through the lobby. He ignored everything until Phichit caught up to him halfway around the block. 

They touched his elbow and flinched when Yuuri jerked it away. He felt like a monster. “Yuuri, what happened?” 

Yuuri's face was wet and he couldn’t catch his breath. He had apparently also managed to ignore that, too. He wanted to say, ‘oh, nothing, I’m just tired.’ He wanted to say, ‘yall have fun, I’m gonna go home and crash.’ Instead, nothing would come out of his mouth but awful honking gasps. Then he saw Victor, hovering behind Phichit, eyes wide and sad and scared. 

“Fuck this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Louis Prima: Mr. Ghost Goes to Town
> 
> CW: there's a first person description of getting groped in a party situation followed by a panic attack. There is also a first person description of problematic alcohol consumption that could be triggering.


	11. What Will I Tell My Heart?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor and Phichit talk. Then Victor and Yuuri talk. Everything gets worse and no one is happy, except maybe a hamster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, if you thought the last chapter was a rough one, well, buckle up, babbies. 
> 
> I'll try to maintain a quick turnaround on updates so that we don't hang out in this rough spot. things will get better, i promise.

The ride back from the party was silent. By unspoken agreement, Victor sat in the front seat, leaving Phichit in the back with Yuuri. When his glance strayed to the rearview mirror, Victor could see Phichit watching him. He tried to smile reassuringly, but it turned into a grimace so he gave up on it. Yuuri sat bent over, his forearms on his knees, head resting against the back of the driver's seat. Victor wasn't sure if he had fallen asleep, passed out, or was simply trying to shut them out. It turned out to be the latter. As soon as they stopped in front of the apartment, Yuuri practically bolted from the car and disappeared through the front door. Phichit followed with a sigh. 

Victor hesitated, wondering if he should just have the Lyft bring him home. Phichit noticed and nodded toward the door. "Come on," they said softly. 

“I should probably go,” he said, even as he followed Phichit into the apartment. 

“Nah. Stick around for a bit.” They looked at Victor, standing in the middle of the living room, clutching the plastic flamingo that had somehow stuck with him the whole night. "I'm gonna see if he needs anything." 

Victor nodded and sat down on the couch. He could hear a soft response when Phichit knocked at Yuuri's door, then the quiet murmur of voices. Victor caught himself straining to hear more, the tension coiling tighter every time he thought he heard his name. He cursed at himself and stood up, throwing the flamingo on the couch. It bounced off and fell to the floor with a clatter that made him wince. The voices stopped for a moment, then went on. Victor stalked to the kitchen. The kettle on the stove gave him an idea, and he poked through the cabinets until he found a box of green tea. He usually avoided caffeine after five, because he was apparently an old man. Somehow he didn’t think that it would make much of a difference tonight. 

He filled the kettle and put it on a burner. Then he opened the tea bag and spun it around his fingers, holding the tag, watching the string wind tight around his knuckles, then unwind as he spun it back the other way. After the sixth time, he realized what he was doing. He placed the bag in a cup, thought for a second and grabbed a mug for Phichit, too. He wiped his palms on his pants. After a moment he realized that he’d been drumming a 5/4 rhythm on his thighs. He made himself stop that, too. By the time the water boiled, it felt like the whistle of the kettle was coming from inside his own brain. 

When Phichit came back, Victor was sitting at the table, sipping a cup of tea and hoping he looked more composed than he felt. He tried to smile at Phichit, but the expression slid off his face before he could catch it. He pushed the other mug across the table. 

"Thanks," Phichit said, taking the seat across from him. They had taken off the bright red mullet and platform shoes. With their black hair still tucked up in a wig band, they looked as tired as Victor felt. They were cradling something in their hands. It turned out to be a hamster, which Phichit gently set on the table, stroking it’s tiny forehead when it nuzzled at his thumb. 

"So, I don't know how to get into this delicately," Phichit began, “but - “ 

"Is he okay?" The question exploded out of Victor before he could stop himself from interrupting. “Do you know what happened?” 

Phichit shrugged. "Sort of. It wasn’t about you, if that helps. Or, not directly about you, anyway.” Phichit pinched the bridge of their nose. “I explicitly said that Halloween is not the time for heavy relationship talk,” they complained. 

“What?” 

“Sorry. I’m just mad that the Universe isn’t bending to my will.” They opened a tupperware and pulled out a few sunflower seeds for the hamster. “Look, I’m not sure I should even be having this conversation with you, but he’s probably not gonna do it. I feel like there’s some stuff you should know before you guys talk.” 

“I don’t want to put you in an awkward position.” 

“Don’t worry bro, I’m already there.” They flashed a wry grin that suited their face much better. “Look, you’re pretty serious about Yuuri, right?” 

Victor closed his eyes. “Yeah, I am. I know it’s probably too soon, but...” He finished with a shrug. He had no idea if Yuuri felt the same way. Sometimes he thought that surely he must. Wishful thinking doppler strikes again, Victor thought. Sure, they had talked about some things, and they had not-talked about even more. Maybe the not-talking part was all Yuuri wanted from him. Victor was suddenly realizing that there were a lot of conversations they hadn’t had yet, not just the one that Phichit was apparently trying to have with him. 

"Look, I don’t know how to say this without getting into stuff that’s really none of my business. I already feel like I’ve put more thought into whatever this thing between you two is than I ever wanted to put into a romantic relationship of any sort." They frowned thoughtfully. "Look, you're going to have to talk to Yuuri about this, because if he hasn’t talked to you about it, I really don’t feel great about getting into it. But, in living with him, I may have observed that he's pretty anxious, like, all the time. And the poor lad's self image is, like, not just below sea-level low, it's, like, deep ocean hydrothermal vent low. With Hoff crabs and tube worms and everything." 

"You lost me." 

"Sorry, i like to get high and watch ocean documentaries." 

"Who doesn't?" 

"Right? Anyway, you know how Yuuri's, like, an incredibly talented dancer who should, by rights, be at least moderately famous? Or would be if I was really his social media manager?" 

"Um, yes?" 

”I may have heard him describe himself as a 'washed-up, out-of-shape, soulless husk of a technically skilled but artistically bankrupt hack.' Then he starts talking about stress fractures and hip-impingement and how that means that he isn't even technical anymore." 

Several pieces clicked in Victor's mind. "Ah." His heart hurt. 

"So, here’s the disclaimer, just so we're clear: this isn't something he's told me, just observations that I have made on my own behalf, which are, therefore, mine to share. So, I don't know exactly what happened tonight, just the broad strokes, but odds are good it wasn't something you did. If I find out it was, though, don’t be fooled by my cuddly exterior - " 

Victor groaned. 

Phichit gave him a steely glare, made more intense by the mismatched contact lenses that they still wore. Victor admired the attention to detail. “I can see that you have been the recipient of a shovel talk before. I will leave the rest to your imagination.” Victor shuddered dramatically, but he couldn’t shake the mental image of some sort of hamster based torture. Phichit quirked an eyebrow over the rim of their mug. "Just, when you talk to Yuuri, keep all this in mind, ‘cuz he’s not in the most logical mental space right now. He’s blaming himself pretty hard for whatever happened, and I didn’t have much luck talking him down.” 

"Phichit, are you breaking up with me? Because this sounds a lot like the 'it's not you it's me' speech." His voice didn't sound as light as he had intended. 

“I just thought, maybe you should, I dunno, be prepared, or something." They stood up to rinse out the mug. "So, are you going home?" 

Oh, that was the logical thing to do when the guy you were maybe-sort-of-dating refused to talk to you and went to bed alone, wasn't it? Yurio was staying with Makkachin, and Victor wasn't eager to explain that he was home early because the guy he’d been maybe-sort-of-dating for a week had maybe-sort-of-dumped him. "Yeah, I guess so," he said, pulling up the app. 

"Because," Phichit interrupted, "you could crash here if you're not good to drive." Victor's head jerked up, and he knew he looked like a golden retriever. "The couch is actually pretty comfortable. I fall asleep on it all the time." 

As Phichit promised, the couch was very comfortable. They had even found him a fuzzy blanket and spare pillow. All of this hospitality didn't mean that Victor slept. He pretended to, sure, especially when he heard a door open and soft steps pad into the bathroom. He pretended extra hard a couple of minutes later when those same soft steps paused at the end of the hallway. Victor forgot to breathe when he heard a hesitant creak on the wood floor of the living room before the footsteps fled back down the hall, leaving Victor's heart beating in his ears. 

By morning, Victor had exhausted himself, reviewing every conversation he’d ever had with Yuuri, scripting out their every word. His brain kept finding the places where he had pushed too hard, been too enthusiastic, invaded Yuuri's space, rambled through some stupid story that obviously wouldn't interest anyone else. Most of all, he reviewed every assumption that he had made about Yuuri. Every time he was too distracted by Yuuri's beauty to realize that maybe a blush and a stammer meant genuine discomfort and not coy flirtation itched in his memory and made him ashamed of himself. 

When grey light started to crawl its way across the kitchen floor he gave up and set about brewing coffee as quietly as he could. Some shitty little corner of his brain pointed out that this was a lot of angst over one hook up, and went on to remind him that normal people often enjoyed casual sex, and that Victor was usually one of them. It went on to helpfully point out that Yuuri had actually not expressed any interest in a relationship. Sex, yes, sure, but Victor was pretty sure that everything else had come from him. He really didn't ever learn, did he? 

He poured a second cup of coffee and turned to resume his vigil on the couch. He stopped short, sloshing hot coffee onto his hand. Yuuri stood in the entry to the kitchen, shoulders hunched, and fingers clenched into fists at his side. He wasn't wearing glasses, and he looked somehow younger and more vulnerable without them. It occurred to Victor that, of course, Yuuri hadn't known he was still there. Victor had invaded his space yet again and Yuuri didn't look happy about it. 

He stayed frozen for a moment, and then, visibly setting his jaw, stepped onto the cracking linoleum. Victor looked down at Yuuri's bare feet. The nail on his left big toe was blackened and there was a strip of dingy athletic tape wrapped around the arch of his right foot. The bone behind his little toes stuck out and sported a matching callus, dry and gnarly, on both feet. Yuuri flexed his toes a little and Victor looked up. His heart sped up in a fluttering of wild hope when he saw the smallest hint of a smile at the edges of Yuuri's lips. 

"You look ridiculous,” Yuuri said. Victor looked down at his puce suit and skinny tie, now rumpled from a night on the couch. "Your mustache is smeared." 

Victor touched his upper lip as Yuuri walked past him and filled a mug with coffee. He sat at the table with a heavy sigh and pressed the warm mug against his forehead. 

“Headache?” Victor asked, careful to keep any trace of judgment from his voice. 

Yuuri flinched defensively anyway. 

“So, does this happen often?” Victor registered that this sounded more accusatory than he had intended, but he was exhausted. 

“What?” Yuuri's voice was flat. 

He was screwing this up, he knew it. “This, you know, sort of thing,” said Victor helplessly, “last night?” 

“Oh, you mean, ‘Hey, Yuuri, do you get wasted and freak out and ruin everyone's Halloween on a regular basis?’ Is that the _sort of thing_ you mean?” Victor winced at that. “Not...exactly. More like, is the getting wasted part of that a ...problem? I just was thinking about the other time.” 

Yuuri snorted. “Probably. Half the time it's the problem and the other half it's the solution to all the rest of them.” 

_Look what you’ve done, Victor. You drove the poor man to drink_. “Oh.” WHen he looked up Yuuri was staring pointedly out the window. He could hear the gentle _hooorp_ of a mourning dove outside. “I wish I'd known you weren't having fun.” 

“Me too. You were having fun, so I thought, cool, I can be this guy. I was trying so hard to be cool, to take it easy.” Victor couldn’t take his eyes off of Yuuri's face. It was calm, blank, almost unnaturally still. “I pulled it off for a little while.” His eyes were pointed at Victor, but he wasn’t really looking at Victor. “It’s not who I am, though. I can’t keep pretending to be someone that I’m not, and you won’t want me when you know what I’m really like.” Those wide brown eyes that normally caught the light and sent it back, warmed into bronze sparks, were dull. 

This was bad. This was so much worse than Victor had worried, even in his darkest imaginings. He hadn’t just fooled himself into thinking that Yuuri wanted to be with him, he had, what? Forced Yuuri to be someone he wasn’t? Oh god, had Yuuri felt like he had to - “Wait, Yuuri,” Victor thought he might throw up. “Are you saying? When we...did you not want?” 

Yuuri looked startled, and for the briefest moment, the cold mask of his face softened, and Victor could see the Yuuri that he knew, that he thought he knew. “No! No. Victor, that's not what i meant. Of course I wanted that.” His hand twitched toward Victor like maybe he would reach across the table, but he just held tighter to his mug. It had a dalmation on it. 

Victor swallowed, unable to say anything. Whatever Yuuri might say next, he knew that he had somehow done this. He had made Yuuri feel like he had to change or hide something of himself. 

Yuuri went on, quietly, thoughtfully. “I mean, of course I wanted that...it's just the rest, I don't know how to…” 

He wouldn’t beg. He didn’t want to make things worse than they already were. “Me either, obviously, I don’t know how to -” Damn it, Victor. “But we could figure it out.” 

“We barely know each other, Victor.” He said it like truth, just a matter of fact reminder that this was all in Victor’s head. 

Victor wanted to, though. He wanted to know Yuuri, and not just Yuuri. He wanted to figure out who Victor was behind the boredom and the deep well of loneliness that Yuuri had dropped a shiny quarter into. He wanted Yuuri to know him, too. He couldn’t say that, though. Instead he sounded petty and offended. “I thought we were starting to get to know each other pretty well.” 

Yuuri gave him a bitter smile. “Obviously not, if this was at all surprising to you. Look, I think I need...I need a little time, okay. You should probably think about this, too. You might realize that you don’t want someone who’s quite so much work.” 

“What? Yuuri, don’t say it like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like you think we should end this.” 

“Maybe we should!” Yuuri looked as startled as Victor at the edge in his voice. He went on, quieter, but just as intense. “Victor, I don't know who I am when I'm with you! It's too much. _You're_ too much.” 

There it was, the same damn thing every time. There wasn’t really anything else to say then, was there? “Yes, I suppose I am.” He knew how he sounded. Pathetic. Passive aggressive. 

“Vitya, that's not what I mean.” Yuuri’s voice was soft and the diminutive stung like lemon juice on a papercut. 

“No, Yuuri, you're right.” The dalmation on Yuuri's mug was getting blurry. He blinked quickly. Damn it. 

“Are you crying?” Victor wanted to shake his head and deny it. Instead he just closed his eyes. A tear dropped to his knuckle. He felt a tentative touch, wiping it away. “Yuuri,” he complained. 

“I just didn't expect you to cry.” 

“I'm mad, okay?” He wasn’t, but it sounded better than to admit the truth. The truth that no one had really ever wanted to stay with him for long. The truth that he had learned to leave before someone else could. That Yuuri was the first person that he had risked feeling this much for in a decade. 

Yuuri's voice was soft. “I'm sorry. Look, I'm not saying I don't want... I just need some space to work some stuff out.” 

“Okay.” 

“Can I call you, in a couple of weeks, maybe?” 

“Okay.” 

Yuuri sighed, and Victor looked up to see him twisting his hands through his thick hair. “Stop saying it like that.” 

“How do you want me to say it?” 

“Just...say it, like, I don’t know, like yourself.” There was a desperate edge in Yuuri's voice. “I just want you to be yourself again.” 

“I would, but apparently that's too much.” 

“Vitya -” 

“I should go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ella Fitzgerald: What Will I Tell My Heart?
> 
> general content note: no one is in a particularly good emotional place, and as a result, they are not being nice either to themselves or to each other.   
> Except Phichit. Phichit is a saint. Maybe a saint who needs to work on better boundaries, but a saint nevertheless.


	12. Free your mind (and your ass will follow)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Have some dancing.  
> feat. Phichit Chulanont and Yuri Plisetsky in the role of reluctant therapists.

It was two weeks into November, and Yuuri was getting really tired of Phichit’s looks. Phichit had a very expressive face and wasn’t shy about using it to broadcast their feelings on a wide range of subjects. The looks that Yuuri was sick of were a suite of looks that Phichit seemed to reserve for him alone. There were at least six variations of _Hey, you okay there, buddy?_ There were also several _Bless your hearts_ s and an incredulous handful of _Oh, so that’s the decision you’re making_. When Yuuri was in a better mental place, he sometimes got, _Aw, lookit my smol shy boy!_ Since Halloween, though, he’d gotten an awful lot of a Look that translated best as, _Okay, you’re actually starting to freak me out_. 

“What?” 

“I didn’t say anything!” Phichit protested, sipping their tea. “Heading for the studio?” They made a show of looking at their wrist. Phichit never wore a watch. “At eleven post menopause?” They set down their mug and went back to stroking the small brown hamster that was perched on a hand-towel. He was busily stuffing pumpkin seeds into his cheeks. Yuuri thought this one was Charles Bronson, but he could have been wrong. 

“Yes.” 

“Weren’t you at the gym earlier? And didn’t you already have ballet today?” Phichit’s voice remained mild, cautious, and Yuuri hated that this was how people interacted with him. 

“Yes.” 

“Yeah. Yuuri, I know this isn’t really my business, but I’d feel bad if I didn’t say something. It just seems like you’re hitting the dancing pretty hard right now.” 

“Well, the doctor finally cleared me to return to my regular training schedule. I have to make up for lost time.” When he said it like that it sounded completely reasonable, right? It didn’t sound in any way like someone who was desperate to make sure that he was too exhausted to think. 

“Mmhm. Again, this is not my business, but did this doctor also encourage skipping meals?” 

“Phichit, I’m a dancer. I have to keep my weight down. This stupid city doesn’t make it easy, and you haven’t exactly helped,” Yuuri snapped. He took a step away from the door, but paused at the heavy sigh that was only slightly exaggerated for effect. 

“Yuuri, it’s cool if you don’t want to talk to me. But they’ve got people at the student health center. Hell, they’ve even got apps for this now, if you don’t want to talk to a face-to-face person. I think there’s even a bot. It doesn’t have to be, hell, it probably _shouldn’t_ be me, but kinda think maybe you should talk to someone.” They stood and went to rinse their mug in the kitchen sink, pointedly not looking at Yuuri as they went on, “It kind of feels like you’re punishing yourself.” 

Yuuri wanted to be angry, but when he took stock of himself and felt the jittery energy beneath his skin, the way the whole conversation made him want to claw it off so that he could slither away from himself, he had to admit that maybe Phichit had a point. “Okay,” Yuuri sighed. “Look, I’ll think about it.” Phichit’s eyes narrowed and they sat back, still petting the hamster. They looked like a Bond villain. “You know, one day you will be wrong about something,” Yuuri said with a smile that was only a few miles away from genuine. 

Phichit dismissed that with an airy wave, “Well, I was wrong about something last week, so it’ll be at least five years before the next one.” 

Yuuri summoned a small smile at that, “I’ll be back. Don’t wait up.” 

“Never,” Phichit replied, as they shuffled down the hall with a yawn. 

Yuuri had mentioned to Dean Cialdi that he liked to work at night and had, miraculously, been granted after hours access to a studio, with the understanding that scheduled rehearsals always had priority. Yuuri suspected that “after hours” meant something else to Celestino that it did to Yuuri, but he had no intention of turning down the offer. It was cold enough that Yuuri jogged over to keep his muscles warm. 

He retrieved the key from the belly of the little stone turtle nestled in the mulch beneath the azalea bush and let himself in. He didn’t bother to turn on the lights, letting the orange-y glow of the street lamps illuminate the golden wood floor. He plugged his phone into the speaker and let spotify shuffle all of his playlists. He managed to restrain himself through a few barre exercises before the pressure that was building in his brain and his thighs became too intense to contain. He flung himself away from the barre in a line of grand jetés and assemblés, leaping without restraint. He finished with a revoltade that just barely cleared the mirror. There was a hint of a twinge in his left ankle, but nothing exploded. He stripped down to his shorts, tossing his sweatpants over his bag. He plopped down and wrapped some athletic tape around the balls of his feet and flexed his ankle a few times. Nothing seemed to be damaged, but he should probably ice it later, just in case. 

He got to his feet, stretching his ankles, letting the music guide his movements, as the song faded out. He was listening for a sign, telling himself that no matter what the next song was, Yuuri would use it, he’d let it guide him somehow. Yuuri had always had a superstitious side. He put a lot of faith in signs and omens and tended toward some light magical thinking. He had always harbored a secret suspicion that the universe was trying to keep him in line, to make sure that he didn’t start thinking crazy things, things like, maybe, just _maybe_ he, Yuuri Katsuki, could be happy. Intellectually, he knew that this wasn’t the case, because at the other extreme, he believed that they were all floating in an impersonal and uncaring void, dust in the wind, and all that. And yet. Experience, or maybe confirmation bias, had taught him that if things seemed like they were going too well, there was an inevitable disaster lurking around the corner. Usually he was that disaster. He had acquired the tendency to view pleasure with intense suspicion, lest it be snatched away. Somewhere along the way he had decided that it was better to be in control, better to run away from the things he wanted than it was to find out that those things didn’t want him back. Here he was, yet again, letting his fear rob him of something that could be so good. 

As if it was reading his mind, Spotify served up a dose of Funkadelic. George Clinton was shouting, “I’m so confused about the whole thing, I can’t feel me, I can’t live me, I can’t be me. My mind, it does not belong to me...I can’t free my mind, so my ass can’t follow.” That was his problem, Yuuri thought. He’d been doing it in the wrong order. Besides, if both George Clinton and Phichit Chulanont were giving the same advice, he should probably take it. 

He shuffled from one foot to the other, letting his hips twitch with the thump of the bass drum. He spun on one heel and extended one leg into a jazzy sort of developpé. He let his body and the music carry him wherever it wanted, leaning back against the limits of his balance, spinning until dizzy, leaping until he was breathless. He danced to more Parliament-Funkadelic, to Gogol Bordello, to Judas Priest, to Dolly Parton and to Tuvan throat singers. He danced until he didn’t care what it looked like, until he could only care about the feeling of pushing his body to its limits, until he only cared about the joy of the movement. 

Before Yuuri knew it, he was halfway through the choreography for Stammi Vicino. The Universe apparently felt like he hadn’t gotten the message. Yuuri had been avoiding Victor’s music, had been avoiding jazz altogether, as if afraid to explore that set of emotions. His heart was like Schrödinger’s Cat, both broken and unbroken, but he wouldn’t know until he opened the box. He had been fighting to keep the box closed a week, but now it turned out that the strain of not knowing was maybe even worse than burying a dead cat. He could do this, he thought, letting his body sway, holding himself gently in his arms. He could make two phone calls tomorrow. One to the student health center, and another to Victor. He could admit to wanting something. He could risk opening the box. After all, the kingdom of heaven was within. 

Victor Nikiforov was bored. The library was, however, not dead. Wednesdays were usually busy: students were finally getting into serious report writing season and Victor had about three teachers to follow up with about tours, and another half dozen research holds to place for various schools. There was currently a line four deep at the desk - mostly over-involved parents who would probably be writing the papers for their children - and several more people waiting for Sara at the self-check. Eugene was waiting for help setting up a new Christian Mingle profile, and Mrs. Metoyer had found a lost aunt that she wanted to look up in Heritage Quest. It should have been an interesting day, by library standards, and yet here Victor was: bored, numb, snappish. It had been a week since Halloween. He’d heard nothing from Yuuri. He only had about thirty texts sitting in his drafts, just waiting for him to hit the send button. They ranged in tone from plaintive and pathetic all the way to defiant and accusatory. He’d deleted all of the sincere and declarative ones as soon as he read the words to himself. 

“Okay, Victor. It’s time for lunch.” Sara sidled up next to him and grabbed his keyboard. 

“What? No, it isn’t.” 

“Sure it is,” she said with a cheerful glance at the patron. “I can take over, hon.” Her glance turned into a pointed glare when she directed it at Victor and promptly started redoing everything that Victor was ninety percent sure he had already done. 

He wandered out of the building with no particular destination in mind, just heading vaguely river-wards. Even though it was a brisk day by New Orleans standards, the sun was warm enough that Victor took off his burgundy cardigan and slung it over one shoulder as he walked. He stopped for a granita at a PJs, giving in to the craving for sugar and caffeine. It was reasonable, he was heartbroken. He thought about stopping in at the DoubleTree to see if Massimo could hook him up with a cookie or two, but even that sounded like more socialization than he was willing to undertake. 

Eventually he found himself at the riverfront. He leaned his forearms against the cold metal rails along the walking path, letting his hands dangle loose as he watched the gulls wheeling overhead, scolding each other and fighting over discarded crawfish shells and french fries. A big white pelican soared over the Mississippi, letting the tips of its wings trail in the brown water and disturbing a family of mallards. A row of ragged looking cormorants stood along a log, wings spread to dry, their long snakey necks all turned the same way. Victor liked the gulls best. They were loud and aggressive and graceful and melancholy all at the same time. He found them very relatable somehow. 

His thoughts were interrupted by a foot to his lower back. “Hey, dickhead,” _kickkick_ , “It’s a good thing I’m not,” _kick_ , “an assassin or something.” 

Victor smirked. “Hi, Yurio.” He took a long sip of his granita. It was getting to the icy part. He gave it a shake. “Did you follow me all the way from the library?” 

“Yes. Isn’t that what I just said?” 

“Why didn’t you just say something, or text me?” 

“Well, first of all, I yelled at you a bunch, but I guess your Lord Fucking Byron act drowned out everything else. And I left my phone at the shop.” 

“Lord Byron, huh?” 

“I’m a drop-out. I’m not stupid.” Yurio came to lean against the railing beside him. “What is your deal, lately? You’re acting weird, even by your standards.” Victor cocked an eyebrow, looking at Yurio out of the corner of one eye. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean, like, are you okay?” He sighed, and Victor could practically hear the eyeroll. “Not that I care, because you are awful.” 

“Aw, Yurio!” 

“Shut up.” 

“You’re so sweet! I knew you loved me!” Yurio stiffened in panic as Victor lunged at him. He could hear Yurio’s teeth grinding in his ear as he hugged him. 

“Oh god, gross.” Victor squeezed tighter, lifting Yurio off the ground. He was surprisingly light. “Victor, I will murder the shit out of you if you don’t put me down.” Victor just spun around. Yurio made a noise that sounded like a wounded koala. When Victor put him down, he quickly backed away and grabbed the bicycle that he’d deposited on the pavement a few feet away. He maneuvered it between them, looking as menacing as a skinny teenager could manage. Victor caught his breath, and found the brief flare of excitement quickly dribbling away. 

“Yeah, see? That’s what I mean, right there.” Yurio jabbed his finger in Victor’s face. “You look like your fucking dog died, man.” Yurio’s face turned white and his usually narrowed eyes went huge. “Oh shit. Makkachin’s okay, right?” 

“Yeah, Makka’s fine.” 

“Oh, thank god. You got dumped then, right?” 

Victor shrugged. 

“God. You are so predictable. What did you do?” 

“Hey!” 

"I assume it was the inferior Yuuri, right?” 

Victor glanced back at the water, and smiled at the gull that was hovering expectantly over them. 

“Well, he’s obviously stupid, then.” That sounded suspiciously supportive. 

“That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” 

“Tch. Don’t get used to it. You’re an asshole and a weirdo, but it’s really depressing when you’re all mopey and shit. See? My motives continue to be one-hundred percent selfish.” He looked at Victor, his eyes a green flash as he held up one finger in inspiration. “Besides, I need a favor, and I’m gonna feel bad about asking you if you still have that look on your face.” 

“Oh, yes, of course.” Victor plastered on a feral toothy grin. “How’s this?” 

“Grosser than usual.” Yurio looked down, “anyway, I wanted to tell you something.” Victor caught one of his rare smiles before he schooled his face back into its usual grumpy mask. “I found a place.” 

“An apartment?” 

“Duplex in St. Roch. Got a yard and everything.” 

That may have been the only thing with the ability to snap Victor out of his self-absorption. “Really?! Yuri, that’s amazing!” 

“Jeez. You’d think you were moving.” 

“Ah, but my happiness, like yours, is purely selfish. I will finally get my couch back and maybe someone will stop eating all of my ice cream.” 

“As if. You know you’ll still need a dog-sitter. Besides, Makkachin would miss me. She likes me better than you.” 

“So, how many couches am I gonna have to move? And what will you bribe me with?” 

“Um, I’ll let you talk at me about your annoying boyfriend?” 

“I don’t think he’s my boyfriend, Yurio.” 

“If that’s what you think, then you’re even stupider than he is. Whatever.” He waved that line of conversation off. “Dedushka has to be out of the home by Monday morning, and I can pick up the key on Friday. Can you come to the home on Saturday?” 

“Definitely. He’s at that place by Touro, right?” Victor pulled out his phone to set a reminder. If it wasn’t in his Google calendar he was pretty much guaranteed to forget it. He added a note to clean out the station wagon. Yurio hadn’t said it, but the old Outback was probably really the MVP in this situation. “Okay, what time?” 

“I don’t care. Like, nine or something?” 

“Okay.” 

“Bring coffee.” 

“Yes, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Free Your Mind...and Your Ass Will Follow by Funkadelic


	13. Float and Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving day.

Victor slumped through the front door and flung himself onto the couch. Makkachin padded over and stuck her cold nose into the crook between his neck and shoulder. He twitched to free a hand so that he could scratch her ears.

“Hi, girl.” She licked his neck, drawing out a reluctant smile. “I know. Yeah. It’s been a long week.” He sat up with a groan. The poodle backed away from the couch, ducking her head. She popped back up with a sharp bark, spinning in a circle, then bowing again, eyeing him expectantly. Of course. Dogs didn’t understand that when you have just spent a day herding two generations of opinionated and stressed-out Russians, a walk didn’t sound as appealing as they thought it did. “No, Makka. I’m sorry, I’m tired.” She tipped her head to the right, concern evident on her doggy face. “Look at me, I’m covered in cat hair,” he picked a long strand from his pants, “and dust. And look at my hands,” He held them out for her to examine. She tipped her head to the left. “My beautiful, talented hands!” She shoved her nose into his right palm, and he scratched her nose. “Look at them, Makkachin! Covered in hangnails and paper cuts! See how dry they are! No one tells you of the hazards of cardboard boxes.” She jumped back with a bark and another spin. No one understood his pain. 

“Ok, girl. You win.” He stood, stretching his arms over his head. Something in his lower back popped with a distressing noise that he was sure was new since turning thirty. He should never have agreed to help someone move, no matter how good a friend they were. Especially not the night after a show. 

The show had gone well, even if Victor’s heart wasn’t in it. He hadn’t been able to stop scanning the crowd for a tousled mop of black hair and the reflection of stage lights in blue-framed glasses. He had to pull Stammi Vicino out of the setlist. Instead he turned Georgi loose with a klezmer arrangement of Ravel’s Bolero that he and Seung-il had been working on. 

Victor had spent the week wallowing shamelessly in sad songs and social media, but after the show he’d come home, flopped on the couch with Makkachin and eaten most of a pan of brownies along with an entire bottle of cheap red wine while compulsively scrolling through Twitter and Instagram in the vain hope that Yuuri would have posted something. He wasn’t very active on social media, but a cryptic link to a Parliament/Funkadelic playlist on Youtube had appeared in the early hours of Thursday morning. Victor had fallen into a restless snooze at around four, only to be startled awake by a reminder on his calendar and a cheerful fall day that had no respect for his desire to mope. 

He had spent far too long in the shower, and when he realized that his wardrobe was not exactly structured around manual labor, had cobbled together the most haphazard outfit imaginable: cargo shorts that had no business in anyone’s closet in 2018 and a shirt advertising Hot Rod Drag Week. He had paired his hiking sandals with thermal socks and stumbled out the door. It was a far cry from the dapper Nikiforov Look that he had so carefully cultivated over the years, and Yurio had made sure that Victor knew it. 

None of this mattered now, of course. His dog needed him, and he had moped long enough for it to become boring. He left his phone on the charger, grabbed the leash and filled one pocket of his shorts with treats and another with bread. At least all the pockets were good for something. Then he and Makkachin made their way to the dog park. 

Dogs were magical, Victor reflected as he and Makkachin walked home. Makka had played with a labrador and a catahoula hound and had found something that smelled horrific to roll in. Victor, meanwhile, had befriended a French bulldog and a corgi ensconced within a cone of shame. Susan, who wrote grants for the City, had even come out and brought her “honorary dog,” a miniature horse that had been accepted by all of the neighborhood dogs without question. She laughed at Victor, tossing her long greying braids over her shoulder as he cooed over St. George and apologized for not bringing any treats for him. 

When they got home, he wrestled Makkachin through a bath, then lingered in the shower, enjoying the sensation of literally washing the day away. As he sat on his bed, still towelling off his hair, he picked up his phone, planning to cue up a podcast or play some music while he worked on dinner. Instead, his notification screen greeted him with the message, “1 missed call: K Yuuri <3.” There was no voice mail. 

His wail of distress startled Makkachin so thoroughly that it took him fifteen minutes to coax her out of the closet and another fifteen minutes of apologies and coddling before she forgave him. 

Victor paced. He picked up the phone, set it down, wandered into the kitchen and poured a glass of water. He started to get dressed, then gave up and pulled on some sweatpants. Finally, sitting in the middle of his bed, Makkachin’s head in his lap for moral support, he returned Yuuri's phone call. It took him several tries to convince himself to tap the little green phone. 

It took four rings for Yuuri to answer. “Hello?” Victor’s breath caught as he tried to reply. “Um, Victor?” 

He swallowed. “Yeah, it’s me. Hi.” 

He could hear Yuuri's exhale over the phone. “Hi.” There was a pause. “V-Victor, I -” 

“Are you - ” 

“Sorry, go ahead.” 

“No, you can go.” Silence thrummed through the speaker. Victor tried to imagine Yuuri's face. He suspected that he was biting his lip. He wondered if he had closed his eyes the way Victor had seen him do when he was thinking about something. 

“I’m sorry,” the words were so soft that Victor had to strain to hear them. “This isn’t going to work.” 

“Oh. Okay then.” His voice sounded flat, tinny in his own ears. 

“No, I mean, the phone thing!” The words tumbled out into Victor’s ear, so fast that he wasn’t sure he caught them all, wasn’t sure that this wasn’t just his mind wishfully filling in the blanks. “I mean, that might not work either, but I’d like to try, but I was talking about the phones, because I’m not good with the phones thing. Look. Um. Can I just see you?” 

“Um, what?” Very smooth, Nikiforov. 

“Sorry. Let me try that again.” Victor thought he could hear just the faintest promise of a smile in those words. “Victor, could I see you? I’m not very good on the phone.” He paused for a breath. “To be honest, I’m not very good in person, either, but could I, just, see you? Please?” 

“YES!” Makkachin gave him a look. “Sorry girl.” 

“Are you talking to me?” 

“Sorry. I woke Makkachin up.” 

“You were sort of loud.” Yuuri was definitely laughing at him, now. 

“I think my neighbors are going to file a complaint.” 

“So, tomorrow?” 

Shit. Fuck. Shitfuck. “I...can’t.” 

“Oh.” 

“I want to!” 

“I’m getting mixed messages, here.” 

“No, I want to, but I promised... I must help Yurio move.” He grimaced, hoping that he sounded as regretful as he was. 

“Oh. Well,” this time Victor could definitely picture the look of determination that accompanied the words, “I could, you know, help.” 

Victor couldn’t resist. He burst into peals of laughter. 

“What? I can carry stuff. I’m not useless.” 

“No, that’s not why I laugh. You don’t have to do that! It’s incredibly not fun.” 

Yuuri was quiet for a moment. His voice was apologetic when he replied. “Well, you have done quite a few not-fun things for me. I can return the favor, if it would help.” 

“Oh, thank god. We have to move a bed tomorrow, and Yurio is just 45 kilos of cat hair and spite. I need you, Yuuri.” Victor was fully aware that he was being very selfish, but absolutely unwilling to deny himself a chance to spend time with Yuuri. “Um, how’s your Russian?”

Phichit was watching Stephen Universe on the couch when Victor tapped at the door. They gave Yuuri an apologetic look as he dashed past, toothbrush still in his mouth, but didn’t rise to help him. Phichit was playing the “I can’t move, my hamsters are comfortable” card again. There were no less than four hamsters snuggled on Phichit’s lap. Yuuri didn’t know exactly how many hamsters there actually were in the apartment, and he preferred it that way.

“Mmforry!” he mumbled as he opened the door. He had planned to be at least somewhat appealing when he saw Victor, but he had stayed up late playing out every possible disaster in his mind, and had overslept. Phichit had made a brief attempt at moral support but, after several snappish rebuttals to their suggestions, had declared Yuuri a lost cause and moved to the living room with the hamsters, leaving the bathroom blessedly vacant. 

Victor looked immaculate, his jeans artfully faded, with a t-shirt that was just tight enough to show off the muscles in his chest, but not so much that it looked silly. He wore a black cardigan and green canvas sneakers. Yuuri, meanwhile, had toothpaste dribbling from his lips and paint stains on his cargo shorts from the last time Phichit had recruited him to help with a set. His t-shirt read “BOOGIE LIKE BARYSHNIKOV” and had a mysterious stippling of holes across the belly. A particularly large glob of toothpaste started to make its way down his chin and forced him to confront the fact that he had just been staring at Victor, literally drooling. With a squeak, he clapped a hand over his mouth and held up the index finger of the other apologetically as he dashed to the bathroom. 

Victor and Phichit were chatting quietly when he came back, and Victor was nuzzling a small grey hamster. “Yuuri! Say hello to Mr. Brynner!” 

“We’ve met.” Victor, undeterred, held out the bundle of fur for Yuuri. Yul Brynner looked at him in confusion, his nose twitching frantically, and shiny black eyes darting. Yuuri tentatively accepted the hamster, stroking his soft back with one finger. He glanced up, realizing how close they were, only to see Victor quickly snap his eyes away from Yuuri, like he’d been caught. Yuuri watched the muscles in his jaw tighten as Victor took a step back. Phichit snorted, but Yuuri ignored them. Still watching Victor’s face, he took a single deliberate step forward. Victor looked down, his eyes narrowed slightly, and Yuuri risked a small smile. 

In response, Victor’s expression lightened slightly. It hadn’t occurred to Yuuri that Victor looked sad until he didn’t anymore. “Hi, Yuuri!” 

“Hi, Victor. You look...good.” 

“You too, Yuuri. I’m glad you called.” 

“Me too. Look, Victor, I -” 

“Okay! I’m out. I can’t watch this.” Phichit bundled their furry companions into their sweatshirt and stood. “Look, you. Don’t fuck this up again.” 

Yuuri and Victor exchanged a glance. “Um, who are you talking to?” 

“Both, duh. I’ve got my eye on you.” They pointed dramatically at their eyes, then at Victor and Yuuri. “I swear to Sondheim, if I ever have to see either of you mope like that again, there will be blood.” They retrieved Yul from Yuuri's stunned grasp and swept off down the hall. 

“So.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Was that?” 

“Yeah, that’s pretty normal.” 

“How many?” 

“I’m afraid to ask. More than five, but less than twenty. I’m not too confident about that upper limit, though.” 

“Huh. I like them.” Victor declared. 

“Are you talking about my roommate or the hamsters?” 

“Both, duh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Float and Fall by Meklit


	14. Giant Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> communication happens. lots of it, in fact. this is the last chapter, although the series may continue at some indefinite point in the future.

So, it was strange. There were a lot of things they needed to talk about, but Yuuri wasn’t sure if they were doing that, yet, so he climbed into Victor’s passenger seat and looked around with interest. The old Subaru wagon smelled strongly of dog. Victor had folded down the backseat, and there was a mess of bungee cords and ratty blankets. A gym bag and running shoes had been wedged behind the driver’s seat. There was a bag of jerky in the center console and a dash cam plugged in to the cigarette lighter. 

Victor noticed him looking and quirked an eyebrow at him. “So, what do you think of my valiant steed?” 

“It’s very -” his mind went blank as he flailed for something that wouldn’t sound too critical “- very comfortable.” 

“That’s a euphemism for messy, isn’t it?” 

“Maybe. I kind of like it, actually.” He helped himself to a strip of jerky before offering the bag to Victor. He accepted with a smile. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. I mean, look at me. I’m kind of a mess right now. It’s nice, maybe, to see someone else’s mess for a change. I mean, look at you. You - you’re perfect. So far out of my league that we’re not even playing the same sport.” 

Victor’s smile had grown strained. “Yuuri -” 

“Don’t. I know I look good on paper. That’s not what I’m talking about. You’re fun and kind. You’re a functional adult with a dog and a house and a job. You seem like the kind of person who is capable of making phone calls without having a panic attack. You probably even have health insurance.” 

“Yeah, a PPO with Blue Cross of Louisiana. Do you really think that means that I don’t have problems?” Victor sounded upset. 

Yuuri wasn’t saying this right. This wasn’t supposed to make Victor feel bad. He just wanted him to understand. “No. That’s not what I meant.” He looked down at his hands and realized that he’d been shredding the strip of jerky. He shoved a piece in his mouth and went on, not caring that he was talking with his mouth full. “Look at me.” He gestured to himself, hoping Victor would somehow see him, not just his ridiculous ensemble and his rumpled hair. He meant the circles under his eyes because he hadn’t slept. He meant the tears that seemed to always huddle at the corner of his eyes. He meant both the stretch marks and the sharp knobs of his hip bones. He meant the curated outfit that he had laid neatly out last night in preparation for today, but had abandoned because it was safer not to look like he had tried too hard. He didn’t know how to put that into words. 

“Victor. I’m just this. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not the fun sexy guy at the party. I’m usually the hide-in-the-corner-and-drink-myself-into-a-miserable-stupor guy. And that’s on the good day when I've convinced myself that I can go to a party!” He tried to wipe away his tears without looking like he was crying but his voice still sounded thick and weepy. It was humiliating. “What you saw, when we met? That was a fluke. The guy you saw last week? The one who has a panic attack and ruins everyone else’s good time? That’s who I am. I’m not like you. I’m not good at getting close to people. You shouldn’t feel bad when you decide it’s not worth the effort of dealing with my bullshit. If you take away my dancing, what’s left? Nothing you want to spend time with.” 

Victor stared ahead, but his eyes had narrowed. “There’s you.” There was a ferocity in his voice that Yuuri hadn’t expected. “I haven’t really been myself, either. I’ve been Fun Victor and Outgoing Victor, not Lonely Victor and Desperate Victor and Needy Victor, and the Victor who really needs you to call me Vitya again. Yuuri, I was about to quit.” He reached over as if he was going to take Yuuri's hand, but he stopped himself and set his hand on the cracked vinyl of the gearshift. “Before I met you,” he clarified, “I was starting to wonder whether it was worth it, to keep making music, I mean. I hadn’t had any new ideas in years. I was sleepwalking through everything I did. I was going to give it up and go full time at the library. Maybe join a few committees, start applying for management positions. Then I saw you move, and I remembered what Art was. I wanted to make Art again for the first time in years.” Yuuri couldn’t take his eyes off Victor’s face, still staring intently through the windshield. “So, yeah, your dancing drew me to you, and I want you to know how much it inspired me as an artist. But that’s all Victor the guitarist talking. Me, I just know that being around you makes me happy, and I want to keep being around you. You don’t even have to let me in, yet. Just, don’t shut me out. You should talk to me through a door, maybe, or a window.” Victor frowned and looked tentatively at Yuuri. “I think my metaphor went astray.” 

That was a lot to take in. Yuuri sort of wanted to run away, but he’d done enough of that lately. Instead, he took a deep breath. “Can we finish this later? If we stay here much longer, Phichit is going to come out and yell at us.” He looked at Victor. “I think we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other, right Vitya?” 

Victor’s face lit up at that, “Will we?” His eyes sparkled cartoonishly as he shifted the car into gear. “Okay, then, you have to be the DJ, because I have to focus on being a responsible driver and teaching you Russian swear words. I don’t want you to feel left out.” 

Victor drove them along St. Charles, the live oaks dappling the light that came through the windshield. Yuuri felt pleasantly relaxed and sleepy after his outburst. They had rolled down the windows in an attempt to de-doggify the car, and Yuuri let his arm rest on the door, tapping in time to Dave Brubeck’s Take Five. He snuck the occasional look over at Victor. More often than not, he caught Victor returning the gaze and laughing with Yuuri as he tripped over the pronunciation of the seemingly limitless Russian vulgarities. Yuuri reciprocated, teaching Victor as many rude words as he could think of in Japanese, blushing the whole time. 

They pulled up into a loading zone in front of the home. Victor had no sooner pulled out his phone, presumably to text Yurio, when the door behind Victor’s seat was roughly flung open. Yuuri flinched at the noise, but Victor grinned. 

“Hey, asshole, we’ve been waiting forever.” Yurio snapped at Victor. Yuuri tentatively opened his door and stood. Yurio’s eyes went even more narrow, if possible. “What the actual fuck, Victor?” 

“We needed help, Yuuri volunteered.” Victor replied innocently. 

“Tch.” Yurio stalked around the car, green eyes flashing. He backed Yuuri up against the car, and shoved one bony finger into his sternum. “Listen, you,” he started, “I don’t know what you think you’re…” he paused in his tirade and glanced over at Victor, who was visibly quivering with ill-contained mirth. “Whatever. I don’t care. C’mon, loser, let’s move a couch.” 

Victor gave him a fatalistic shrug. Yuuri closed his door and walked around the car. Yurio’s grandfather had watched the whole interaction with an air of amused interest. Victor was leaning over his wheelchair and speaking to him in Russian. Yuuri stepped close to pick up the large brown suitcase. 

“Yuuri! Meet Nikolai Plisetsky!” Despite the wheelchair, Nikolai looked more robust than Yuuri had pictured. He had a full salt and pepper beard and wore a soft brown cap that combined to give him a very old-world appearance. He was broad through the chest and shoulders, despite his illness. It was hard to see any resemblance between him and his lean and feral grandson, until he turned a pair of piercing green eyes on Yuuri. 

“Um, hello sir. I’m Katsuki Yuuri. It’s nice to meet you.” Why did he feel like he was meeting the in-laws? 

Nikolai nodded with a grunt. At least it seemed like a relatively friendly grunt. Yuuri hefted the suitcase which looked to be of Soviet vintage. He lugged it over to the trunk. Yurio shoved his shoulder into Yuuri's as he passed with just enough plausible deniability to not be definitely deliberate. Yuuri sighed as the suitcase banged into his shins. This had the potential to go down as the strangest date of Yuuri's experience, and he had once let someone take him to a mayonnaise-themed restaurant. 

Nikolai said something to Yurio, who replied with a softer look than Yuuri had ever seen on his face. He gave his grandfather’s shoulder a squeeze. “Okay, assholes. Dedushka says this place can kiss his ass. Let’s go.” 

Oh. that was easy. Victor and Nikolai were talking in quick sussurent Russian as Yurio helped Nikolai into the passenger seat. Victor was nodding and gesturing. He spotted Yuuri watching. “Sorry! Directions!” He bent to listen to Nikolai again. 

“Yeah, the storage unit is out at the ass-end of town on Causeway,” Yurio grumbled to Yuuri. “I think you should work some of your boyfriend mojo and convince Victor to buy us coffee on the way.” 

“Um, I don’t know if I’m -” 

“Ugh! Shut up, I don’t care. He’ll buy coffee if you ask.” Yurio paused and glared at Yuuri. “Wait. Were you seriously about to say you didn’t know if you were his boyfriend?” 

Yuuri nodded. 

“Oh my god. You sound just like him. You two idiots really are a fucking match made in my own personal hell, aren’t you?” He shook his head. “Whatever.” 

“Okay! I think I know where we’re going, now.” They piled into the station wagon, Yurio wrinkling his nose at the smell. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be the end of the world if Yuuri acknowledged actually wanting something in his life. Maybe he could start small. “Oh, Vitya,” Yuuri spoke up, “Could we grab some coffee on the way? Please?” 

“Yuuri! That’s a great idea! Coffee for everyone! My treat,” Victor promised as he wrestled the old Subaru into gear. Yuuri might have been imagining things, but he was fairly sure that Yurio had flashed him a thumbs up.

“What’d he say?” Yuuri asked quietly. Yurio and Nikolai were unpacking boxes in the small galley kitchen while Victor organized the bookshelves and Yuuri folded towels. Yuuri hadn’t meant to eavesdrop; they were chatting quietly in Russian, and something Nikolai said made Yurio’s face light up like a little kid. Yuuri couldn’t help but pry, just a little. Phichit was clearly a bad influence. Victor probably wouldn’t tell him if it was too personal. 

“Hm? Oh, Nikolai said he’ll make pirozkhi once they get the kitchen set up.” 

“Pirozkhi?” Yuuri asked. 

“Oh, they’re little dumpling, er, pie...things.” Victor tilted his head, listening to the conversation from the kitchen. “They’re Yurio’s favorite, I guess.” He set the last book on the shelf with satisfaction and stretched. “So, Yuuri, what’s your favorite food?” 

“Huh?” He paused thoughtfully. “I like almost everything.” 

“Except dairy,” Victor amended. 

Yuuri shook his head, correcting him. “I like dairy just fine. It doesn’t like me back.” He ducked as Yurio tossed an empty box at his head, “Hey!” 

Victor continued, not acknowledging the attack. “Anyway, I didn’t ask what you _liked_. I asked for your favorite.” 

“Oh, that’s easy.” Yuuri grinned, blushing the slightest bit. “I would do hideous, illegal, vile things for my mother’s katsudon.” 

“What’s that?” Yurio asked, plopping onto the couch and prodding Yuuri's shoulder with the toe of his sneaker. 

“Um, yeah, it’s a fried pork cutlet with rice and egg and onions and stuff.” 

“Huh.” Yurio commented. “Okay. go away now. Me and Dedushka can take care of everything else.” 

Nikolai said something that sounded affirmative. Yurio replied with a side-eye at Yuuri and Victor. 

Yuuri looked his question at Victor who smirked, “Nikolai says he is tired and Yurio says he is sick of our stupid faces.” 

“That’s not what I said -” Yurio started. 

“I edited for time and content.” Victor replied. He stood, brushing dust from his jeans, and extended a hand to Yuuri. He accepted gratefully. One of his feet was asleep and he teetered a little bit as he rose. 

Yurio was fidgeting slightly as he looked at Yuuri. “Thank-you-both-for-your-help,” he muttered as quickly as possible. 

“Aw, you’re welcome Yurio!” Victor exclaimed, with that huge and sincere smile of his. He grabbed Yurio and hugged him, lifting him bodily. Yurio’s face was scrunched in irritation. Victor set him down and said something quiet to him. Yurio gave him a look that was somehow exasperated and pleased all at once, then turned a look toward Yuuri. 

“Look, Pork Cutlet, you didn’t have to help with this, but you did, so, I guess that's pretty cool of you.” He kept his eyes on Yuuri even though the next thing he said was in Russian. Victor blushed, but he didn’t translate. 

Nikolai barked a laugh as he wheeled in from the kitchen. He extended a hand to Yuuri, who shook it, still mystified. “Dasvidanya, Katsudon.” He smiled from behind his beard.

Yurio and Nikolai’s apartment wasn’t far from the lake, so when Yuuri suggested a walk, Victor was happy to agree. They parked at the end of a road lined with seafood joints, almost all abandoned since Katrina. 

They wandered out along a road lined with houses on one side and lake on the other, which terminated in a long jetty just a bit wider than the road. A couple of lonely palmettos rattled in the wind from the lake and a trio of coots bobbed just offshore. Yuuri was quiet, turning his face into the breeze and closing his eyes. Victor shoved his hands into his pockets, so that he wouldn’t do something impulsive and scare Yuuri off again. It was so hard not to reach for him. He looked away, across the lake. It was steel grey today, with a slight chop to the water. The sky seemed lower than usual. 

“Is it supposed to rain?” Victor looked toward Yuuri. He still had his eyes closed and he pushed his hair back from his forehead, a slight smile stretching his lips. 

“I don’t know,” Victor replied. “Feels like it, doesn’t it?” 

Yuuri nodded, opening his eyes. “This is nice. It kind of reminds me of home, with the gulls and everything.” 

“Yeah, it’s big enough for you to imagine that it’s the ocean. It doesn’t take long to get to the actual beach, though. Have you been, yet?” 

Yuuri shook his head. “Not yet. Maybe we should go sometime.” 

Victor swallowed. “I would like that.” 

“Not until after Christmas, though. Nutcracker is going to be my life for the foreseeable future,” Yuuri said with a grimace. 

“Oh? Are you dancing?” 

“Well, I’m mostly wrangling the reindeer.” 

“Wow, I did not know that animal husbandry was one of your skills.” 

“The reindeer are a squadron of small children with very involved parents.” 

“Ah. So even more challenging than livestock.” 

“Well, there are definitely more tears,” Yuuri said with a wry twist of his lips. “Mostly from me.” 

“I had to substitute for Sara’s storytime once, so I sympathize.” 

“Oh, and one of the trio from the Russian dance dropped out, so they drafted me.” 

“Oh, well, if you need any tips, I would be happy to help,” Victor said, laying the accent on thick and false, like a Bond villain. 

Yuuri smirked, “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” 

“Yuuri! You wound me. I’ll have you know that my Hopak is second to none.” He took a couple of big steps and turned back to face Yuuri, dropping into a deep squat, and folding his arms. He managed a couple of squats and kicks before he gave up at a sharp pain in his hamstring. Yuuri gave him what was clearly meant to be a withering stare, but it dissolved into laughter as Victor frantically clutched at his thigh, sitting on the sidewalk. “See! I am wounded!” 

“Oh, poor baby,” Yuuri commiserated, petting his hair. Then he stepped around him, his body language immediately shifting into performance mode, gaze sharp enough to cut Victor in two. He held his eyes for a second before exploding into motion, the athletic jumps and squats of the Ukrainian Hopak combined with the handstands and flares of break dance and the presentational formality of ballet. He didn’t dance long, and maybe it looked a little silly in cargo shorts and sneakers, but Victor didn’t care. A fisherman applauded from the edge of the jetty, and Yuuri gave him a wave before stepping back to Victor’s side, closer this time. He wasn’t even winded. 

“Is that the actual choreography or were you just messing around?” 

“Little column A, little column B. It’s fun to think about sometimes, I mean,, what I would do if I had the chance.” The back of his knuckles brushed against Victor’s cheek and he couldn’t help but lean into it. Yuuri sat down beside him. “Hey, Vitya? I’m really sorry about everything. You must feel like...I know I’ve been kind of hot and cold.” 

“I...I mean, yeah, I haven’t really known what to think.” He squeezed Yuuri's hand. “Sometimes it seems like you’re with me, and other times it feels like, I don’t know, like I’m making you uncomfortable or I don’t know: like we’re not on the same page at all.” 

“Yeah. We might not be, but we probably wouldn’t know, since we haven’t talked about it. I started seeing someone.” 

Victor’s inhalation stuck in his throat at the words, and he tried to withdraw his hand. “Oh, Uh -” 

Yuuri just grabbed it tighter. “Started seeing a therapist, Vitya. Sorry.” 

“Oh, okay. That’s good, then.” 

“I hope so. But, anyway, she pointed out the obvious thing, that no one knows what’s going on with me if I don’t tell them. Usually I try to keep everything in, because I don’t want to inconvenience anyone. But she, uh, totally called me on my bullshit.” He gave Victor a sly look, “Because I guess shutting out all of the people who lo-, uh, worry about me, is probably still kind of inconvenient for them.” He scratched the back of his neck with his free hand. “So, I’m working on that.” 

“Oh, well, that’s good, then. If we’re going to be a thing, I want you to feel like you can tell me what’s going on, even if what’s going on is that you really need me to leave you alone.” 

“Are we?” 

“Are we what?” 

“Going to be a thing.” 

“I’d really like to be.” Victor stopped and tugged on Yuuri's hand. He paused and looked up at Victor, his brown eyes sparkling in a completely unfair way. 

“Even though I’m weird and distant and scared of everything?” 

“Cool, because I’m clingy and shallow and not even a little bit good at being comforting.” 

“We are obviously destined to be together.” Yuuri gave him a wry smile. 

“Yeah,” he pulled Yuuri close for a hug. “This is good,” he said wisely, as Yuuri's wind-blown hair tickled his nose. “My therapist says that communication is the most important thing in a relationship.” 

“You have a -” Yuuri pulled back to look suspiciously at Victor. “Wait, is your therapist just Christophe?” 

Victor shrugged noncommittally. Good advice was good advice, “Shut up, he’s still right.” 

“So, what did Yurio say, before?” 

Victor wrinkled his nose and looked away from Yuri. 

“Sorry, it’s not really my business. You don’t have to -” 

“No, it’s okay. Just keep in mind that insults are how he shows he cares.” 

“Don’t forget violence.” 

“It sounds unhealthy when you put it like that.” Victor found his mind wandering to the curve of Yuuri's back beneath his hands. “He said he was glad we were working on our bullshit because I was a huge mopey dickhead last week. Then he called you a piglet and said that even though we’re both shit-asses he thinks we deserve to be happy. Then he said to pedal away while we could.” 

“Aw. Wait, was there a bicycle involved somehow?” 

“It’s an idiom, I guess.” 

“Never tell him I said this, but that’s adorable.” 

“Don’t worry, I don’t want my boyfriend to be dismembered and fed to cats.” 

“Boyfriend, huh?” Yuuri tipped his head back, offering up that quiet knowing smile of his. 

“Yeah.” 

They broke apart after a moment as a gust of cooler wind blew in off the lake, tossing their hair and stealing their breath as they walked, faster this time, back to the car. They still weren’t fast enough to avoid the rain. They dashed back hand-in-hand, laughing and shouting in the downpour. There were a handful of picnic shelters in the park where they paused. Yuuri pulled Victor to him, his skin shockingly warm beneath his damp t-shirt. He kissed the rain from Victor’s lips and cheeks, tracing kisses down his jawline and neck to bury his face against Victor’s shoulder, shivering. 

“Come on, let’s go dry off.” One more sprint got them back to the station wagon. They swarmed inside and Victor turned the heat as high as he could; it wasn’t a particularly cold day, but Yuuri was visibly shivering in his seat. “You okay?” 

“Yeah, just cold,” he replied through chattering teeth. His glasses had fogged up and he was trying to tuck his chin into his collar like a turtle or something. Victor struggled not to laugh as he pulled into the road. 

The problem with a stick shift, Victor reflected as he drove, was how often he had to release Yuuri's hand to shift. It was only five, but the light was already fading beneath the cloud cover. The heater was doing its job and the car was a warm and sleepy haven beneath the pounding rain. 

”Yuuri?” 

”Hm?” His voice sounded warm and sleepy and Victor’s thoughts flew to several topics that didn’t have anything to do with avoiding potholes. He hoped his suspension would forgive him. He flinched at a particularly bad one that sounded like it scraped muffler. 

”Do you want me to bring you home? Because, if you wanted, I could cook us some dinner.” He hoped the offer sounded casual. 

Yuuri yawned cavernously and followed it up with a sneeze. “That sounds nice, but…” he trailed off, gesturing at his wet clothes. 

”If that’s the only problem, I can loan you some, but if you’re trying to find a polite way to say no, then I’ll bring you home.” 

“No, I would just tell you. Communication, remember?” He stretched, grabbing the back of his headrest and arching his back. Victor tried to keep his eyes on the road, especially when the motion made Yuuri's t-shirt ride up. 

“You seem, I don’t know, relaxed.” 

Yuuri didn’t say anything for a second and Victor worried that he had already overstepped the boundaries that they were just starting to map. “I guess I am,” he finally said, in a tone that implied that he was as surprised as anyone. “I wonder... Huh.” 

Victor waited for a conclusion, but nothing else seemed forthcoming. “Hm?” 

“Oh. sorry, I was thinking that maybe there’s something to be said for getting all your bullshit out in the open right away. I guess I don’t have to worry what you’ll do when you figure out what a wreck I am. I mean, I still don’t know what you’re thinking, and I figure that eventually you’ll come to your senses, so I’m terrified about that. I know that I’m going to get hurt when you finally run the cost-benefit analysis on me. I mean, I’ve already proven that I’m a bad risk. But since I can’t control when that happens, I mean, I tried -” he shrugged, “I guess I don’t feel like I have to pretend anymore. It’s a huge relief.” 

”So, you decided I was a good risk?” 

“Not really.” 

“Yuuri.” 

“I decided I’m going to get my heart broken, but I’m already in too deep. I don’t know, somehow, I decided that I wanted to risk it anyway. George Clinton said it was a good idea.” Victor couldn’t fathom what that might mean. Yuuri went on, “I don’t want to be dishonest, Vitya: I’m actually really scared. I don’t know how to do this, and that will definitely not be my last meltdown, and I’ll sure I’ll mess it all up, but I decided that I still want to try.” 

That seemed like a bleak conclusion to Victor, but Yuuri seemed strangely pleased with it. “Well, if it helps, I usually mess things up, too. I’ll probably give you a whole bunch of extra chances.” 

“Well, I’ve already used up a couple. I really am sorry about all that.” He leaned forward, extracting the aux cable from the pile of junk in the console and plugged it into his phone. “Do you mind?” 

“Please.” He thought for a second. “Just not, me, okay? It’s weird.” 

Yuuri nodded and wriggled back in his seat, fiddling with his phone. After a moment he settled on “Talking Book,” surprising him by quietly singing along to “Sunshine of My Life,” without a hint of self consciousness. He fell silent by the second verse, though, and Victor looked over at a stop light to see his head tipped back against the window, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. 

Yuuri jerked awake when they hit Victor’s driveway. “Was I...Oh God,” he groaned, “I can’t believe I fell asleep. Was I snoring?” 

“No. And you only drooled a little.” 

“Ugh, too embarrassing.” 

“It was very adorable.” Yuuri peeked out between the fingers that hid his eyes. Whatever he saw must have convinced him of Victor’s sincerity. 

“Oh. Okay.” His face was still red as he unplugged his phone and reached for the handle, frowning at the downpour, “Ready?” 

“Yes,” Victor nodded, “Just stay close to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Giant Steps by John Coltrane  
>  yes, i know it's a little on the nose.
> 
> Thank you for coming on this journey with me (possibly for the second time). I think i can leave this one alone now.


End file.
